


Secrets Stolen from Deep Inside

by RileyC



Series: A Change Will Do You Good [1]
Category: Agent Pendergast - Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Gen, M/M, Male Friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-12-13
Updated: 2010-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-13 16:02:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/139084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyC/pseuds/RileyC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A serial killer is targeting gay men, Agent Pendergast and Lieutenant D'Agosta are determined to nail the perp, and along the way they make a few discoveries about themselves. It picks up sometime after the conclusion of <i>Reliquary</i>.</p><p>Because of the nature of the crimes Pendergast & D'Agosta are investigating, there are a few instances of homophobia described, as well as some offensive language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Secrets Stolen from Deep Inside

**Author's Note:**

> Some while back, kleenexwoman bought a fic from me, as part of the relief auction. Her request was for a Pendergast/D'Agosta fic set pre- _Brimstone_ , where they don't act on their feelings, at least not then and there. This is that fic.
> 
> This should be regarded as an Alternate Universe fic. Although one element from Fever Dream is incorporated in this, everything else is scheduled to go majorly AU round about the wrap up to the Diogenes Trilogy.
> 
> The Family of Truth, while inspired by real life and personal experience, is a work of fiction.
> 
> Sanctuary Park does not exist. It's somewhat inspired by Christopher Park, but as that wasn't quite what I wanted, some tweaking with actual Greenwich Village geography and landmarks was necessary. Awhile back I found this site, [Forgotten New York](http://www.forgotten-ny.com/), which provided some additional inspiration.
> 
> Some slight liberties are taken with the lyrics of Sting's _Moon Over Bourbon Street_ from  Dream of the Blue Turtles.
> 
> The title comes from _Time After Time_ , by Cyndi Lauper; lyrics of which are also quoted.
> 
> My beta was fanfromfla.

  
**~Secrets Stolen from Deep Inside~**   


  


  
Part One   


“How can you be from New Orleans and not like jazz?”

Vincent D'Agosta asked the question casually, although genuine curiosity ran through it. Every Pendergast tidbit that came his way always intrigued him.  
“I don't believe jazz appreciation is actually required by city charter,” Pendergast said, taking the question seriously, and making D'Agosta smile.

Leaning back in the comfortably padded, red upholstered banquette, he scanned the room and said, “Well, they're good,” and nodded his chin at the trio on the small stage. Bass, trumpet and piano, with the piano player adding his vocals to a haunting rendition of _The Man I Love._ D'Agosta had heard the song before, performed by women, but something about this interpretation struck him as unusually poignant.

Pendergast's lean shoulders lifted in a minute shrug, his cool blue eyes taking in the club's patrons. “I'll take your word for it,” he said. After a considered pause, he added, “Their volume is, I'll grant you, at a tolerable level.”

D'Agosta had to stifle a laugh. “Oh, well, so long as their volume's tolerable.” He added his applause to the rest as the song finished, and the trio starting in on a mellowed out arrangement of _Some Enchanted Evening._ “You see anybody likely?”

“Not so far.”

They were in Diversions, in the Village near Washington Square Park, and they hadn't dropped in on this early spring evening just to hear jazz and shoot some pool. A serial killer was at work in the city, targeting gay men. One of the things the victims all had in common was that Diversions had been the last place they were seen alive.

Something else they all shared was that they had been figures of some authority in the community. Perry Blake, 42, had been a congressman, taking the risk of coming out with his partner just before the last election. The action had made him a hero -- and a target -- and D'Agosta had started out working it from that angle, thinking the killer would be found through the threats leveled at Blake.

Then a 28-year-old firefighter, Jake Brannigan, had been killed in the same manner - throat cut, body mutilated, FAG carved across his chest - and the picture had changed.

D'Agosta had held out hope that a clue would turn up in all the hate mail to Congressman Blake. Maybe the killer would be a member of one of the so-called Christian groups who regularly protested against gays and showed up to celebrate when someone died of AIDS. D'Agosta guessed those people read a different Bible from the one he had, because he sure didn't remember any scripture like that from Sunday school.

While he was looking into that, however, two more men died: Joel Rosenthal, 37, the weekend sports anchor for WNYB, and William Bradshaw, a 49-year-old Episcopal priest. The murders were bad enough on their own, especially as they provoked hate groups into even more abominable action. In addition to the usual army of media camped outside One Police Plaza 24/7, the anti-gay freaks were gathered there too, brandishing signs proclaiming the murders were divine judgment and the killer was a hero. They accosted D'Agosta and any other officers, declaring they were doing Satan's work by looking for the killer, asserting the whole NYPD was populated by sodomites.

No, deplorable as that was, D'Agosta could handle it. The killer was going to be found among that legion; he felt that in his bones. What had come like a blow was confirmation that the murders in New York were not isolated incidents. There had been seven more slayings that matched the local ones: three in New Orleans, one in Las Vegas, and three more in Chicago.

Because of that, he knew the Feds were going to come in on it. That it was Pendergast who walked into his office had been a stroke of good luck.

“I won't ask how you're holding up,” Pendergast had said, taking a seat and assessing D'Agosta's appearance. “How may I help?”

“I won't say no to a fresh pair of eyes.” Especially when they were Pendergast's. He would have been logging extra hours at the shooting range to bleed off tension if the Bureau had sent some asshole like Coffey. Pendergast was in a whole other class, and his involvement had instantly raised D'Agosta's flagging spirits.

Together, they had gone over all the evidence again, scant as it was. No fingerprints, DNA samples that hadn't matched any records in the system, some literature left at the crime scenes, and a list of souvenirs the killer had taken away with him.

Turning up the pamphlets -- all luridly denouncing homosexuality and all printed by the Family of Truth -- had been a stroke of luck. There wasn't any mention of similar material in the reports from Chicago or Vegas, but New Orleans had confirmed the presence of similar booklets. _“Well spotted, Vincent.”_

 _“Easy to spot something when you're looking for it.”_ D'Agosta had found one of the pamphlets, muddy, torn, stained with blood, crumpled in the alley where they'd found Joel Rosenthal, and he had gone back to the sites where the first two victims had been killed, ruining his clothes but rooting out similar items.

It was too tenuous for a direct connection, dearly as D'Agosta wanted to make one, but he'd filed it away and started working out a private theory.

They finally got something solid to work with upon the discovery of two eyewitness statements - one each from Vegas and Chicago. The witnesses gave partial descriptions of a suspect that matched up really well with what Father Bradshaw had been able to tell them before he died. Overall, the descriptions added up to: male, late 20s, average height and weight, no outstanding characteristics - except for an SS-style lightning bolt tattooed on the inside of his arm. The witnesses weren't sure which arm, but given the knife had been wielded by someone right-handed, they believed it likely the tattoo was on that arm.

The only problem was, a jackass reporter named Harriman had overheard Bradshaw's statement, and put it -- word for word -- in an article for the _Times._ Because long sleeves or a bandage were sufficient to cover up the mark, and you could hardly go around hauling in everybody in long sleeves or with a bandage on their arm, the tattoo would only be useful after they had a suspect. Still, it was something, and there was always a chance of a moment's carelessness, a sleeve riding up just far enough, to make it one rare good break in the case.

Pendergast agreed there was a strong probability the killer was associated with the hate groups, although he was inclined to think the connection might be somewhat tenuous. “Someone even more on the fringe,” he'd said, “if such a thing can even be conceived.”

“Like a stalker?” D'Agosta had said, finally giving voice to the theory he'd been working on, and piquing Pendergast's interest.

“How do you mean?”

“A goon steps out of a crowd, shoots the president, and says he did it to gain the attention of an actress.” D'Agosta said, shrugging. “Maybe this psycho's killing to win the approval of someone in the group.”

Pendergast had nodded thoughtfully. “And it's working. They're already claiming him as a hero.”

“Doesn't do him any good if he can't step up and claim the accolades,” D'Agosta countered.

Pendergast had stared at him across the desk, a look of admiration in his eyes. “I do believe you're onto something, my dear Vincent,” he'd said, and D'Agosta had felt a funny, warm glow at the words.

Of course if he'd know what Pendergast would wind up proposing… But no, going to Diversions wasn't so bad. For one thing, there was zero chance of having to eat a rat, and that alone made it a vast improvement over anything else Pendergast had ever asked him to do.

He hadn't been convinced they could pull it off - _“Why ever not?” “No one's going to believe I'm your type, for one thing.” “Nonsense. You're an attractive man, highly intelligent, and excellent company. Presuming I had a 'type,' as it were, you would meet all criteria.”_ But although they had gotten some curious looks when they first stepped in, it had been more in keeping with the general air of caution in the wake of the killings than anything else. The accidental-on-purpose revelation they were with the NYPD and FBI, respectively, had put those concerns at ease and set off a flurry of interest.  
A few inquiries had been edged with anger, with the attitude that the murders weren't getting the attention that would be accorded the slaying of some Fifth Avenue socialite. Most of the patrons just wanted to know if the newcomers were involved in the investigation and if they were getting close to catching the son of a bitch.

D'Agosta followed Pendergast's lead, playing it close to the vest and not letting on that he was running the investigation from the NYPD side. The objective was to draw the killer's attention, get targeted by him, but not make him suspicious and get his guard up. So, they were just a pair of law enforcement officers, no direct connection to the case, and stopping in at Diversions of the recommendation of a friend.

“Adam Prescott?” the bartender - Ted - had repeated when Pendergast dropped the friend's name. He nodded his head in recognition. “Yeah, he's a good guy. Haven't seen him in here in awhile.”

Pendergast had explained that Prescott was working out of D.C. these days, but sent his regards. Then he withdrew with D'Agosta to a cozy seating area that provided a degree of privacy as well as an excellent view of the bar, the stage and the half-dozen pool tables in the place. The lighting was turned low enough that they could engage in their surveillance fairly covertly, not stirring up any suspicions.

It might have gone unremarked anyway, since everyone was doing some assessing, and not just with a hook-up in mind. Ted had said business hadn't been hurt because of the murders, but people were being more careful, not taking anyone at face value, no matter how attractive the face.

~*~

Clandestine or not, so far their vigilance hadn't turned up anything and D'Agosta was reminded of why he'd always hated stakeouts. The trick, he'd learned, was to think of it like fishing. You could sit there for hours, never getting so much as a nibble, but then when you were about ready to pack it in, along came a trout for the record books, making it all worthwhile.

Then, too, sometimes you just had to come back and try it all over again the next day. He had a sense this undertaking was going to be a lot like that.

“So who's Adam Prescott?” he asked, keeping his voice pitched low and taking a sip of his Bud as the trio finished _I've Got You Under My Skin_ and took a break.

“As I said,” Pendergast took a dainty taste of the brandy he'd ordered, “a friend in the Bureau.”

“And he won't mind you using his name in this situation?”

“I shouldn't think so. Adam's been, ah, out for quite some time and had mentioned this establishment to me.”

“Hmm.” D'Agosta cast Pendergast a thoughtful look, knowing it was none of his business, but still not quite able to keep his mind from wandering a few steps down the path.

Aware of the appraisal, Pendergast said, “Are you going to ask?”

Caught out, D'Agosta looked away, feeling his face burning. “None of my business.”

“True.”

“I mean, you were married.”

“True,” Pendergast murmured again, a faint note of amusement in his voice, “and of course there's no such thing as bisexuality.”

D'Agosta stared at him, trying, and failing, to figure out if Pendergast was pulling his leg. Given the man was the most unreadable person D'Agosta had ever known, he didn't make a lot of progress. Besides, what he'd said was true: it wasn't any of his business. Why the possibility stirred up a minor twinge of jealousy was beyond him. Maybe he was getting a little too much into his role here.

In fact, he hadn't thought too much about what his role might require and guessed he'd cross that bridge when they reached it - _if_ they reached it. There were a lot of public displays of affection going on around them, true enough. It ranged from two guys at the nearest pool table standing really close as one of them racked up a shot, the other casually resting a hand on his back, to another couple over in a shadowy corner making out pretty enthusiastically. Nothing you wouldn't see going on in any watering hole. Plenty of guys were just kicking back, too, listening to the music, shooting the breeze and playing some eight-ball.

“Adam is a very good friend, nothing more,” Pendergast said, bringing D'Agosta back from his musings.

D'Agosta shrugged. “None of my business if he was,” he said, and hoped to Christ he was imagining the petulant note in his voice.

“Now, now,” Pendergast said, Southern drawl laid on extra thick. He reached to clasp D'Agosta's hand where it rested on the table, “Don't be that way, Vincent.”

Uncertain for a moment, D'Agosta caught Pendergast's quick flick of the eye, alerting him they were drawing some inquisitive looks. So - here came that bridge, then.

“Yeah, well,” he said, a little gruff now, buying himself a smidge more time, “this is pretty new to me.” Might as well get on across, he decided, and turned his hand to clasp Pendergast's, feeling the other man's palm cool and dry against his own. “I'm not jealous.”

“No reason you should be.”

“A little insecure maybe.”

Pendergast smiled, squeezed his hand. “No reason for that, either, my dear Vincent.”

D'Agosta shook his head slightly, bemused. This was crazy; no one was buying them as a couple. It was … Wow. Pendergast's hand had shifted in his, long fingers delicately tickling his palm. D'Agosta caught his breath for a moment, swallowed, felt warmth rising in his face. Not sure how he was meant to react and before he could even start looking for his bearings, Pendergast was sliding closer to him along the padded bench, leaning his head close to lightly nuzzle the rim of D'Agosta's ear - and ignite every nerve ending.

“Please forgive me these liberties, Vincent,” he said, voice dropped to a barely audible level, “but I fear we must look authentic.”

Yes, of course; he knew that. He just … hadn't expected. “Uh huh,” he said, nodded, swallowed again, not understanding his reaction but hoping to hell Pendergast didn't notice anything.

“You're doing quite well,” Pendergast murmured, lips pressing against his temple for a moment before sitting back again. “Do you play pool?”

“Do I…” D'Agosta shook his head as if to clear it. “What?”

“Pool,” Pendergast gestured to the tables. “Do you play?”

“Learned at my father's knee,” D'Agosta said, gradually working his way back to firmer ground, still not sure what had just happened.

“Excellent. Care for a wager?”

D'Agosta shook his head. “Wouldn't be fair - you don't stand a chance.”

“Really?” Pendergast gave him an interested look. “That has the ring of a challenge,” he said, sounding like he relished the idea.

For D'Agosta, the familiar rhythms of racking the balls, chalking the stick, and making the shots, the clack of the balls knocking into each other, spilling across the green baize surface in a riot of color, soon had him grounded and breathing easy again. This, he knew; the other … not so much.

~*~

They left at around eleven, passing a couple getting pretty hot and heavy in the entryway, and climbing the steps back up to the sidewalk. Taking their time, lingering on the sidewalk, they slowly headed toward the park, every sense alert to any sign they were being followed.

“Looks like rain,” Pendergast said, pausing by the arch and looking around the park. “A bit macabre to think the remains of more than twenty thousand souls still rest here.”

D'Agosta shot him a look, floored at the turnings Pendergast's mind took sometimes. “A bit, yeah.”

“When yellow fever epidemics swept the city in the early 19th century,” Pendergast went on, “the dead were brought here for burial. The area was still considered to be outside the city, and thus a safe and hygienic spot for disposal of the corpses.”

“Great; I ever go on _Jeopardy_ and that's the final answer, I'll ace it. You see anybody?”

Pendergast smiled. “No. You?”

He tracked one guy who'd been in the club, revealing a bandaged right arm when he'd rolled up his sleeve and reached for a cue stick - but the guy embraced a man coming to meet him, and they both climbed into a cab that whisked them away. “No, nothing.”

“Fortune favors the patient,” Pendergast said, a faintly wry note in his voice. “We'll try again tomorrow.”

D'Agosta nodded. “It's a date,” he said, made a face, added, “You know what I mean.”

Inscrutable as ever, Pendergast nodded in return. “I do. Let us hope it will be more eventful.”

Watching Pendergast wave down a taxi, D'Agosta wasn't sure he could take too much more excitement.

~*~

The house locked up for the night, Vincent went upstairs, stopping to check in on Vinnie Jr. and little Isabella, before quietly letting himself into his bedroom. Lydia hadn't waited up for him, of course. There had just been a sticky note on the fridge, letting him know there was a plate of spaghetti and meatballs to pop in the microwave. He'd given the plate a dubious look, wondered why she had such a hard time following his nonna's recipes -- 20 years married and the kitchen was still a mystery to her - and given it a pass.

He'd been working on dropping some pounds lately and was making good progress. Undressing, he patted his stomach, pleased at not having to suck in it too much anymore, and decided any pounds lost due to Lydia's cooking was a bonus.

Climbing into bed, Vincent tugged on the covers Lydia was hogging, his feet tangling with her cold ones for a moment. “That you, Vinnie?” she asked, sleep slurring her voice.

“Yeah. You expecting somebody else?”

“George Clooney'd be nice.”

He snorted at that, got the covers free, and settled back. “Everything okay here?”

“Sure.” Lydia stifled a yawn, rolled over to face him. “Anything happen with you?”

“Not much. Little progress maybe.” Studying her, Vincent wondered what she'd say if he told her about the line of investigation he was pursuing with Pendergast. He wondered, too, what made him hold his tongue. It wasn't like he really was seeing Pendergast. There hadn't been anyone for him but Lydia in, jeez, almost 21 years now, since Lydia Barrett, the girl all the guys were chasing, picked him out of the crowd.

That had been their junior year in high school, and just over a year later they were husband and wife, rushed along because he'd knocked her up and was determined to do right by her, even though his mother and hers had been against it. Lydia's, because she thought her daughter was marrying beneath her; Vincent's, because no girl was good enough, especially when she wasn't even Italian. As it turned out, the pregnancy scare was a false alarm and they could have waited, but Vincent had never had any regrets. If Lydia did, so far she hadn't said.

He'd never cheated on her; never been tempted to. Where he'd even find the time was beyond him, even though he knew plenty of married guys on the force had someone on the side. And he'd sure as hell never stopped to think about his sexual orientation, and hadn't expected to crash into questions like that now, pushing 40.

Raised up on an elbow, he looked at her sleeping there beside him. She'd kept her figure pretty well over the years, and he'd bet she could still turn heads. Maybe their sex life wasn't what it had been once - whose was after two kids and 20 years? He didn't have any complaints, though; not really, not a _lot._ He definitely had never found himself checking out guys, wondering what that would be like.

Which he wasn't doing _now._ It was just… Vincent sighed, reached out to run a hand lightly along Lydia's arm. For a second he imagined it was Pendergast he was touching, pale skin stretched taut over hard, toned muscle - and his hand faltered, fell away as he settled back on the mattress, staring at the ceiling.

Yeah, okay, but that was just an arm, he told himself, and tried picturing more, tried picturing kissing Pendergast, on the mouth, like a lover … and the idea didn't freak him out. Should it? he wondered, laying there in the dark and thinking about it.

So, all right, he had a pretty good imagination, and he wasn't homophobic. Those were good things. No reason to go reading anything more into it. Besides, touching people, showing his feelings, that was just how he was; it was natural he'd do that with Pendergast. And yeah, okay, so it had been Pendergast actually initiating the intimacy, but only because Vincent might have hesitated to invade Pendergast's space like that.

Anyway, he decided, stumbling through his tangled-up reasoning, the point was nothing was different. He wasn't going to wake up gay tomorrow. It was still Lydia he wanted to go to bed with.

Shifting closer to Lydia, Vincent caressed her shoulder and slid his hand downward to curve over a breast. He leaned in to kiss her. But Lydia, half-asleep, made a face and turned away, saying, “Vinnie, it's almost two in the morning.”

He could remember a time when that hadn't mattered, but guessed those days were officially over.

~*~

Aloysius Pendergast stood on the balcony of his Dakota penthouse, gazing out at Central Park bathed under the light of a full moon. His thoughts drifted from the African bush five years ago -- the last time the world had felt right -- to the present where he could discern a real possibility of life's wheel turning around to a better place again.

Helen had told him once that she suspected he did certain things with the deliberate intent of testing people; pushing their limits to see if his eccentricities would drive them off or if they were willing to put up with his quirks -- perhaps even call him on them. (His cultivated, _cultured_ eccentricities, she'd said, were tended as carefully as a greenhouse full of rare and delicate orchids.) Was he doing that now, with Vincent? he wondered, considering his behavior tonight.

Why had he proposed this particular line of investigation? Why inveigle Vincent to come along with him? Pursuing this line might actually run much more smoothly as a solo operation. He didn't _need_ Vincent with him, but he did certainly _want_ him there. His company was agreeable, more than that of anyone else he had encountered in quite a long time. Vincent's practical, down-to-earth perspective made an excellent sounding board and contrast. There was something wonderfully grounding about Vincent D'Agosta, along with a dependable honesty that could be delightfully refreshing.

It had been a long time since Pendergast had known anything, anyone like that. For a long time he'd thought it was something he had been destined to know once, but never again. He grew less certain of that belief every time he worked with Vincent.

Vincent's friendship was invaluable. There were few people Pendergast had ever felt close to, fewer still he could trust. Might his actions in this case place that in jeopardy?

In the immediate aftermath of Helen's death, and for a long time afterward, it had been inconceivable that he would pursue another relationship. Anything casual, simply indulging bodily urges, was abhorrent. It would cheapen the love he had known with Helen. Keeping his private vow of chastity had been no hardship, and there had been no one to cause him to reconsider that pledge - until now.

Even now, if he thought any move toward D'Agosta would upset their friendship, Pendergast would not pursue it. He didn't think Vincent would react with shock and horror if it was something he didn't want, but their relationship would be altered. The knowledge would always be between them, just as becoming lovers would change things.

But if Vincent didn't turn away … if it was something Vincent wanted… Pendergast shook his head. These ideas were too elusive to grasp hold of, let alone pursue.

It wasn't possible. He should banish every thought of it from his mind.

He rather suspected that might be more difficult to accomplish than he anticipated.

  
Part Two   


“Do you have dinner plans this evening?”

“Plans?” D'Agosta glanced at Pendergast, shook his head. “Probably just grab a sandwich.” He shrugged, feeling self-conscious. “Been trying to watch my weight.”

“Yes, you are looking more trim of late,” Pendergast said, giving him a look of approval. “We'll have time for a bite after concluding our errand here,” he said, smoothly maneuvering the car into an empty parking space. The silver, late model Ford Taurus was a step up from the rattletrap Buick he'd been assigned during their first investigation.

Getting out of the car, D'Agosta looked along the quiet, residential street in Brooklyn. The trees were coming into leaf, and most of the stoops boasted container plants with spring flowers that added cheerful bursts of color to the scene. But the one they were headed for -- headquarters of the Family of Faith -- was devoid of any frivolous flashes of life and color.

Austere and unwelcoming, blinds drawn against prying eyes, the place looked deserted.

“You sure this is the place?”

Pendergast nodded. “Quite sure,” he said, and indicated a family of four approaching the brownstone from the other direction, climbing the steps and knocking on the door in what almost looked like a specific rhythm. After a moment the door cracked open, words were exchanged, and the family was ushered on inside.  
Waiting on the curb for a FedEx truck to go past, D'Agosta looked at Pendergast. “We gonna need a decoder ring and secret handshake to get in?”

Smile enigmatic, Pendergast said, “Something like that,” and D'Agosta guessed that told him some of what the FBI agent had been up to today.

~*~

It had been a slow day. D'Agosta had spent it reviewing the evidence and looking for that pattern, that one clue that would suddenly pop out sharp and clear and bring everything into focus.

One good thing had been the thinning of the crowd of protestors and media camped outside. It was as if they were starting to run out of steam now that five days had passed without another murder. The main question D'Agosta had to dodge from the reporters was if he thought the Gay Reaper had finished with New York and moved on. Biting his tongue never did come naturally, but restraining himself to the standard, non-committal, “No comment,” had rankled more than usual. He knew it was just what the press did, giving killers some catchy name to jazz up their stories and sell more papers. The bad taste of the name was annoying enough, but D'Agosta could feel his blood pressure rising over how the homophobic protestors had picked up on it, brandishing signs decorated with drawings of this figure, portrayed like a superhero.

 _“'The best lack all conviction,'”_ Pendergast said as he joined D'Agosts at the window, looking down on the stragglers outside, _“'while the worst are full of passionate of intensity.'_ The Second Coming,” he added, “by William Butler Yeats.”

“Yeah,” D'Agosta nodded. Usually Pendergast spouting poetry left him nonplussed, but he liked this one. “I don't lack conviction. How about you?”

Clapping him on the shoulder, Pendergast said, “Not in the least.”

Not that D'Agosta had doubted it for a minute, but the back-up was welcome all the same. With the feeling growing that they were just spinning their wheels, he was ready to take encouragement anywhere he found it.

Going over to the board where D'Agosta had pinned up crime scene photos, Pendergast tapped a long finger against a photograph of Diversions. “Why is this the focal point?”

Behind his desk, edging open a drawer to aim a longing look at his cigars, D'Agosta shrugged. “Could be coincidence,” he said, looking up to meet Pendergast's dubious gaze. “Yeah, I don't believe it, either.”

“If you want to light up--“

“Nah,” he shut the drawer, “I gave it up for Lent.” Tilting his chair back, hands clasped behind his head, D'Agosta studied the board, juggling possibilities. “None of them were regulars. That much was coincidence -- that they had all stopped in there the nights they were killed.”

Taking a seat, Pendergast asked, “Why do you go to a cop bar, Vincent?”

D'Agosta snorted. “I don't. I get enough of cops when I'm on duty; don't need to hang out with more after hours,” he said, becoming aware of Pendergast's pointed, if amused look. “Present company excepted.”

“Indeed. And thank you.”

“But yeah,” D'Agosta went on, “I see what you're getting at. You want to go to a place where you can really unwind, be yourself; someplace where everyone else there gets you, gets your life. A cop bar, you don't have to watch what you say because it might freak out some civilian who's never seen a dead body outside a funeral home.”

“And you go to a gay bar because it's a safe place. You don't have to hide and pretend anymore,” Pendergast said, thoughtful. “Congressman Blake was out, what about the others?”

“Ah,” D'Agosta said as he flipped back pages of his notebook, “Father Bradshaw made quite a splash a couple months ago, outing himself in a Sunday sermon to his congregation to get on top of some rumors that had started spreading. Brannigan and Rosenthal were deep in the closet, though, because of their careers. Rosenthal had told his family, and been pretty well disowned. Brannigan hadn't even gotten to that point, although his sister said she'd always suspected.”

Nodding to himself, Pendergast studied the board some more. “The congressman was the first victim in New York,” he murmured, half to himself, “and visiting Diversions for the first time… That means something,” he said, turning to look at D'Agosta.

“A crime of opportunity?”

“If we're right about the killer targeting certain figures, men he sees as occupying positions of influence and importance in the community--“

“Spotting a high-profile congressman in the club would have been one motherfucker of a trigger for him.”

“Colorfully put,” Pendergast said, “and, I fear, also quite accurate.”

“Yeah, but,” D'Agosta sat up straight, frowning at the board, “what's he doing there, the killer, I mean. Why's a straight guy hang around a gay bar?”

Pendergast spread his hands slightly. “It is, to put in bluntly, an ideal hunting ground; the perfect place to select his victims.”

But D'Agosta shook his head. “No, it's more than that. No coincidences, right?”

Nodding, Pendergast said, “It has been my experience that, the deeper one looks into a matter, the more clear it becomes that nothing occurred by mere happenstance. What are you thinking?”

“I'm not sure. It's…” He cleared his throat, shook his head, frustrated with the way the picture wouldn't quite come into focus. “It's…an idea,” he said, knowing that probably sounded pretty lame.

Pendergast got it, though. “In that case, Vincent, may I make a proposal?”

“Propose away.”

“You pursue your idea, and I shall follow up on mine.” Something close to an impish sparkle in his blue eyes, and Pendergast added, “I strongly suspect we will meet somewhere in the middle.”

Hoping he was right about that, D'Agosta watched Pendergast leave. He sat there thinking things out a couple more minutes, and then pulled the phone over.

~*~

Tapping his pen against a legal pad, D'Agosta wrote down one more item, concluded with a flourish of a big-ass question mark and circled it a couple times. Clicking the pen shut and setting it down, he pushed back from his desk and indulged in a knuckle-cracking stretch. It had been a long day but, he thought, a productive one. At least that hazy picture was looking a bit sharper. Still a couple of indistinct shapes, but he was feeling a great deal more confident that some real progress was being made. Maybe whatever Pendergast was doing would help pop those missing pieces into place.  
And speak of the devil…

Pendergast, carrying a large, plain brown shopping bag, let himself into the office, pausing just inside the door to appraise D'Agosta. “You look a good deal more at ease then when I last saw you. I take it your inquiries were successful.”

“Yep,” D'Agosta said, smiling. “I found out--“ he began, stopping when Pendergast held up a finger. “What?”

“With your indulgence, I would like to suggest we each hold onto our private theories for just a bit longer.”

Brows drawn together, D'Agosta asked, “Why?”

“Because I suspect our activities this evening will provide us the final pieces to fully flesh them out and allow us to combine them.”

“You said that earlier.”

“And my view of the matter hasn't changed.”

D'Agosta sighed, gave a shrug. “Okay, so what are we doing this evening?” Another visit to Diversions was likely - in fact, necessary, with or without Pendergast -- and he didn't want to stop right now and examine the sudden rush of keen anticipation that prospect brought. Easier to wonder what Pendergast was planning now.

His answer began taking shape as Pendergast set down the paper bag and began withdrawing assorted items, placing them on the desk. “Our first stop is going to be this evening's Family of Truth services.”

Dubiously eyeing the cheap, threadbare clothing laid out on the desk, D'Agosta could hardly contain his excitement. “Oh, peachy.”

Pendergast smiled. “Where's your locker room?”

~*~

Pushing up the black-rimmed glasses he'd been given to wear, D'Agosta glanced at Pendergast, having to admire the other man's disguise. Blond hair combed down over his forehead and darkened a few shades, a false mustache and beard completed the facial transformation. The rest was accomplished with the thrift store suit, still black, but cut for someone at least a size bigger, add a stoop-shouldered posture, and he looked like a completely different person. Nothing elaborate, yet wholly effective.

D'Agosta's own makeover was far less dramatic, and amounted to another thrift store suit, dark blue, with an outstandingly gaudy tie that reminded him of those velvet Elvis paintings; in this case, a pink flamingo and a palm tree against a black background. The glasses, with clear lenses, were the only other item, as Pendergast had explained the tie alone should be a sufficient distraction. _“They'll remark that, and the glasses, and register little else.”_

When he'd examined himself in a mirror, D'Agosta found he could well believe that.

“So what's the plan?” he asked as they started across the street.

“Listen and observe,” Pendergast said. Withdrawing something from a pocket, he tapped D'Agosta's shoulder with them. “You'll need these.”

He took the items, a Bible, specially printed for the Family of Faith, along with a couple of the group's pamphlets and a flimsy magazine called _Truth's Trumpet,_ with a logo that he guessed was a bad artist's rendition of the walls of Jericho tumbling down. “Great, I've been wanting to read this.”

Pendergast admonished him with a look. “We are pious, true believers, Vincent. No sarcasm until our mission here is over.”

D'Agosta guessed he could bite his tongue for awhile, but he had a feeling it wasn't going to be easy.

Reaching the brownstone, they climbed the steps and Pendergast rapped his knuckles against the door in a precise pattern that made D'Agosta think of Morse code. “SOS?” he whispered.

“Very like,” Pendergast murmured back, just before footsteps approached and they could hear locks being opened. The door cracked open a couple inches on a safety chain. A pretty teenage girl peered out them expectantly, her expression guarded until Pendergast said the magic words, “Genesis 19:24.”

She smiled then, shut the door to undo the chain, and let them inside. “Welcome, brothers, the Lord's blessings be upon you.”

“And on you,” Pendergast said.

“I'm Sister Rachel,” she said, leading them through the dimly lit foyer, about as plain as the outside of the brownstone, with just a table against one wall and a rack containing an assortment of books and more pamphlets.

“I'm Brother Leland,” Pendergast said, “and this,” he indicated D'Agosta, “is Brother Dale.”

D'Agosta shot him a quick look out of the corner of his eye, wondering where he'd dug up those names.

As Rachel led them along downstairs, telling them the service would be starting in just a few minutes, D'Agosta took the opportunity to study her.

She was maybe 17 or 18 and pretty enough in a fresh-scrubbed way, with dark brown hair drawn back in a ponytail, bangs combed neatly over her forehead. Her most striking feature, he decided, were her eyes. Fairly deep set, expression watchful, they were a dark green color that reminded him of old, glass bottles. D'Agosta wasn't sure how he would have described her dress, although _prim_ and _dowdy_ sprang to mind. The hem fell below her knees, the short sleeves were kind of puffy, and the squarish, lace-trimmed neckline was up to her collarbone. And her shoes - well, he thought his nonna had worn something like them when they'd gone to Sunday Mass. He wouldn't have expected to see a teenage girl dressed like that anywhere outside _Little House on the Prairie_ reruns.

The room they wound up in was below street level, with blinds once more drawn tight over the windows. It maintained the minimalist décor of everything else he'd seen so far. Toward the front was a platform with a lectern, with seven rows of metal folding chairs neatly lined up, 10 chairs to a row. He couldn't decide if he was surprised or disgusted that it looked like there would be a full house this evening.

Rachel directed them to a pair of seats in the back row, plenty of elbow room between them, and Pendergast thanked her, gesturing for D'Agosta to be seated.

While they waited, he took the opportunity to crack open the Bible he'd been handed, searching for the chapter and verse that had gained them admittance. Finding it, he read, _Then the Lord rained brimstone and fire on Sodom and Gomorrah._ Yeah, that figured, he thought, closing the book and looking around at the congregation, wondering what had happened to these people that they didn't place any value on all the teachings about mercy and forgiveness, loving your neighbor, not judging others or casting stones of accusation at others when you were a sinner too.

Studying the room, thinking it might as well be a bunker, it struck him these people were hiding just as much as any closeted homosexual, maybe worse. If they were so certain they had the one, true, exclusive claim on God, why were they so afraid?

He wondered if they ever even let questions like that cross their minds.

Feeling a slight nudge in his side, D'Agosta looked at Pendergast. The agent gave a slight nod of his head, indicating D'Agosta should look forward and to the left. He did, at first not seeing what had caught Pendergast's eye. It was just another member of the congregation, a young, skinny guy, dressed a lot like him. Then the guy ran a hand back over his head, a cowlick springing up like the comb on a rooster, and D'Agosta shot Pendergast a startled look, silently mouthing, _Smithback?_

Pendergast raised his eyebrows and gave his head a slight shake, indicating he didn't know what was going on, either. Since it looked like the service was about to begin, D'Agosta guessed curiosity would have to wait for a bit.

Not sure what to expect, he experienced a fleeting sense of relief when the opening prayer was a mild, humble invocation asking for God's blessing and mercy. D'Agosta didn't mind adding his own private hope that he and Pendergast would find the killer before any more lives were lost.

After that, it was more along the lines of what he had expected. Brother Tyler up behind the lectern, prowling back and forth along the narrow platform, telling the congregation how this was a time of great oppression for the righteous, with the secular world pressing in on every side, like the whore of Babylon tempting them to sin. It was a righteous blessing to be persecuted, though, Brother Tyler told them; for only by being tested as Eve, that whore of Eden had been, and spurning the serpent's vile offerings, could they know their virtue was true and right.

Brother Tyler backed his sermon up with quotes from scripture plucked out of context and twisted to suit him, backed up with adages that sounded more like something he'd gotten off greeting cards than any proverb in the Bible.

D'Agosta tried not to check his watch, and imagined it only felt like eternity was passing before his eyes.

Instead he found himself drawing a contrast between now and last night at Diversions. Then, he and Pendergast had been sitting pressed close together, shoulders, thighs brushing with every shift along the red upholstery. Fingers caressing for a moment as they both reached for a napkin. Even before Pendergast had moved in for that little public display of affection, D'Agosta had been aware of that closeness. Now, he was even more conscious of the pronounced distance between them. Their chairs were placed at what must be a regulation four inches apart, precluding any possibility of a casual graze of shoulders, of a brief touch of leg against leg.

Those incidents hadn't registered as anything huge when they happened. It was only now, when any such slight contact was utterly prohibited, that those moments suddenly stood out so vividly. Too vividly, he realized, making himself focus on the service.

Looked like things were wrapping up with another prayer, this time asking the Lord to protect them from their enemies and give them the fortitude to do battle against wickedness. No incitement to murder, no bringing anyone forward to proclaim him a holy warrior for committing the murders.

D'Agosta supposed that would have been way too easy. He glanced at Pendergast, wondering if the agent had gotten what he wanted from this evening.

The members of the congregation were getting to their feet, most of them heading to another room, as Spartan as the others except for a couple of tables set out with refreshments. D'Agosta almost did a double take, observing a couple of women mixing up punch bowls of Kool-Aid.

“They've gotta be kidding,” he muttered.

“Or,” Pendergast whispered back, “unaware of any connotations beyond its being an inexpensive, non-alcoholic, non-caffeinated beverage.”

“All the same, I think I'll pass.”

Pendergast smiled. “As you wish, but do I think we should mingle a bit.”

D'Agosta nodded, heading over to one of the refreshment tables, stomach rumbling, but not so much he was willing to sample the sugar cookies. For all he knew, that was how they did it, sifting some kind of mind control drug into the cookie dough, and next thing you knew, you were one of Reverend Tyler's minions all because you'd eaten a cookie sprinkled with the special red jimmies.

It wasn't any crazier than anything else he'd been involved in since Pendergast came along.

Eluding some crazy-eyed geezer with wild eyebrows and hairy ears via the clever ruse of asking where the restrooms were, D'Agosta weighed the risk of doing some poking around, exploring some areas of the brownstone that might not be open to the public. Nothing he found would ever be admissible in court, but still…

A giggle froze him in his steps. He ducked just inside the restroom door, listening to a door closing upstairs, footsteps hurrying along the hallway. Might be nothing, but a furtive giggle in this place stood out like a rat in the lasagna.

Opening the door, he barged into the hallway and almost bumped into Sister Rachel.

“Oh!” Startled, she put out a hand to ward him off, while he made his apologies.

“Sorry, sorry. Are you okay?”

“Yes,” she said, pulling her composure around her. Running a self-conscious hand through her hair and smoothing some mussed strands back into place, she gave him a faint smile. “I'm fine.” She peered more closely at him. “Brother Dale, right?”

“Right, right.” Spreading his hands, forcing an embarrassed laugh, he said, “Always klutzing it up, that's me.”

“No, no, it's okay. I should have been paying more attention where I was going,” she said, tugging at her dress, adjusting the neckline, fingers closing over the fine, silver chain of her necklace. It was then D'Agosta glimpsed the two objects dangling from the chain.

“Hey,” he really was forcing the good-humor into his voice now, “I've got a class ring like that,” he said, holding up his right hand to show her.

“Oh, yes,” uncertain now, she moved her hand, revealing the ring she wore on the chain, sports symbols etched in the metal around a blue stone. “It's not mine, actually,” she said, a blush burning her cheeks. “It's a gift, a sort of token. You understand?” She looked at him earnestly, as if his comprehension were essential. “A promise.”

“Sure, sure, I get that,” he said, taking note of the other object on the chain, a plain silver cross, set with a modest amethyst. “And the cross, that's a gift too, a pledge?”

Eyes lowered modestly, she nodded, cheeks dimpling with a smile. “You won't tell anyone?”

He shook his head, feeling sick. “Your secret's safe,” he said, silently adding, _For now,_ as he watched her scurry on her way, the very picture of innocence.

A touch on his shoulder nearly had him jumping out of his skin. Whirling, he found Pendergast standing behind him. “What the--“

But Pendergast hurriedly clapped a hand over D'Agosta's mouth, stilling the outburst. “I suggest we take our leave,” he whispered, gesturing to the stairs leading to the ground floor.

Nodding, only too glad to get the hell out of this place, D'Agosta followed him up the stairs and outside, filling his lungs with cool spring air, a thousand times fresher than the poisonous miasma back inside.

“Did you see?” he demanded, struggling to keep his voice low as Pendergast steered him along. “She's wearing two of the goddamn trophies!”

“I saw,” Pendergast said, releasing him as they rounded a corner, well away from any of the congregation. Looking intently into D'Agosta's face, he said, “That's all we know, Vincent, and we can't even be one hundred percent certain of that.”

“The hell we can't!” D'Agosta turned to head back to the brownstone, ready to snap handcuffs on that simpering little monster right now.

Pendergast caught him, pulled him back. “Vincent, we need proof. If we arrest her now, we run the risk of alerting the killer and giving him the opportunity to escape. You know that.”

“Yeah, but…” Frustrated beyond belief, D'Agosta ran a hand back through his hair, pacing away a few steps. “The cross and ring match the descriptions exactly. You know they do. She's probably got a shoebox full of the other items.”

“I don't doubt that's true. Believe that. But we can't act rashly, Vincent, not now when we're so close to finding the killer. Sister Rachel isn't going anywhere.”

Drawing in some more deep breaths, striving to calm himself, D'Agosta shook his head, hating it but having to acknowledge Pendergast was right. “She'll claim she didn't know about the murders. She'll make herself out to be a victim.”

Pendergast nodded. “Very likely. All the more reason to assemble as tight a case as possible before making an arrest.”

D'Agosta looked at him, furious at the whole thing. “I hate this.”

Reaching over to clasp his shoulder, rubbing gently, Pendergast said, “I know. It won't be much longer. Now,” he smoothed both hands over D'Agosta's shoulders, brushing out wrinkles, straightening his tie, “compose yourself,” he said, ignoring the pissed off look D'Agosta shot him, “and come along, our evening isn't over yet.”

Yeah, he knew that, and it did buoy his spirits to know things were tightening up. “Time to compare theories?”

“Nearly there,” Pendergast said, leading the way down the street - but not toward the Ford Taurus. Instead, Pendergast was headed for a beat-up old Volvo. Bending down, he tapped on the passenger side window, saying, when it rolled down, “Good evening, Mr. Smithback. What a pleasant surprise.”

~*~

“Nice tie,” Smithback said, eyeing the pink-flamingo-and-palm-tree spectacle.

“Bite me,” D'Agosta said.

They were in a booth in a coffee shop, back in Manhattan, and D'Agosta looked around as Pendergast rejoined them after excusing himself to take a phone call. “Anything interesting?” he asked as Pendergast slid into the booth beside him.

“Quite possibly.” Looking over the menu, it was clear that was all the enlightenment he intended to offer at the moment. “How did you find California, Mr. Smithback?” he asked, after they had given the waitress an order for three coffees.

From the look on Smithback's face, D'Agosta wasn't the only one wondering how Pendergast knew the reporter had been out to the West Coast. “California?”

“Yeah,” Smithback cast Pendergast a dubious look, “I just got back a couple days ago.” He shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “I had a meeting with this producer who wanted to option my book on the museum murders. He thinks it has the makings of the next mega-blockbuster.”

“So why aren't you celebrating?” D'Agosta asked as the waitress brought their coffees. He took a sip of his, made a face and added some milk and sugar.

“Nothing to celebrate; I turned the offer down.”

“What the hell for?”

Smithback shook his head, face scrunching up with frustration. “He showed me a proposed script, for starters, and even though it was just a rough draft, and it'd probably never even get made, but it…” He let his breath out in a big, gusty sigh of discontent. “It's wasn't even the same story anymore. They'd left Pendergast out completely--“

“Excellent.”

“--and sort of morphed some of him onto D'Agosta, like some kind of…” Smithback searched around for a word, “some kind of _P'Agosta_ character.” Even more indignant, working himself up, he said “ _I_ wasn't in it. The museum staff had all been changed. They had it set in _Chicago._ Margo and the Mbwun creature - which, incidentally, wouldn't be called the Mbwun anymore - had some kind of weird Alien/Ripley thing going on…” He shuddered, slugged down some coffee “It was just _wrong,”_ he said, as if some fundamental law of the universe had been corrupted.

Taking the pragmatic route, D'Agosta asked, “Were they gonna pay you a bundle for it?”

“Yeah, the offer was very generous,” Smithback said, assuming a look of injured dignity. “That's not the point. I would have been selling my artistic integrity if I'd said yes.”

D'Agosta rolled his eyes. “Oh, yeah, your book's just oozing with artistic integrity.”

Somewhat absently, Pendergast said, “I thought the foreword was quite well written.”

Waiting a beat, and looking like he was starting another slow burn, Smithback said, “D'Agosta wrote the foreword.”

D'Agosta bit back a smile, caught sight of Pendergast's distracted expression, and asked, “What's up?”

Giving them both an inquisitive, slightly mystified looked, Pendergast asked, “Alien/Ripley thing?”

“You know, _Alien,_ the movie,” D'Agosta said, a bit flabbergasted at the lack of comprehension in Pendergast's eyes. “Sigourney Weaver? Played Ripley, this kickass chick who's the only survivor on the ship after the alien comes aboard?”

“And the cat,” Smithback added.

D'Agosta looked at him. “What?”

“Ripley and the cat were the sole survivors.”

“Yeah, yeah, fine.” He looked back at Pendergast. “And there was a cat.”

“In space?”

“Sure in space,” D'Agosta said, and started to tell him about the movie, with Smithback chipping in and the two of them singling out the chest-bursting scene as the freakiest moment.

“John Hurt's just sitting there, eating, and WHAM!,” D'Agosta punched his fist into his palm for emphasis, “this thing comes tearing out of him, starts running around the room--“

“Screaming,” Smithback put in.

“Yeah, screaming. Some kind of noise anyway, and then it disappears into the ship and the movie really kicks off with the alien picking off the crew one by one, until it's just it and Ripley.”

He looked closely at Pendergast, then back to Smithback. “He's never seen it.”

“Are we really surprised?”

Still sifting through their plot description, Pendergast said, “It sounds like something my brother would have enjoyed.”

Interested, D'Agosta said, “I didn't know you had a brother.”

“He's dead.”

“Oh. I'm sorry,” D'Agosta said, almost in harmony with Smithback.

Pendergast gave them both a cool look, and said, “Don't be,” in a way that sounded like he meant that literally.

Exchanging another look with Smithback, D'Agosta shook his head at Smithback's questioning look. To get over the uncomfortable moment, he asked Pendergast, “You have actually seen a movie sometime in your life, right?”

“Of course.”

Smithback leaned forward. “Like…?”

Pondering the matter, Pendergast lifted his shoulders in a slight shrug as if to say indulging their inquisitiveness was nothing disagreeable. “I enjoyed one called _Le Jetee_ not too long ago.”

“What's it about?” Smithback said.

“I believe its genre was science fiction, actually, and that it was considered fairly groundbreaking when it was made in 1961. It's told via flashback, employing a series of still photos, and concerns the experience of a man who volunteers to go back in time from a post-apocalyptic Paris to the more tranquil days of his childhood. The crux of the plot is that he meets and falls in a love with a woman who seems familiar to him, and tries to remain in the past.”

D'Agosta shared another look with Smithback, pretty sure they were mirroring each other's reaction. “Yeah, I keep meaning to stop in at Blockbuster and pick that up.”

Taking a swig of his coffee, Smithback grimaced as if it had gone cold, and went back to eyeing the two of them guardedly. “So, these murders? The Family of Truth, there's a connection, right? I mean, I know I'm right, but--”

“You know we can't possibly comment on that, Mr. Smithback, although I am gratified to see you have kept up with recent events,” Pendergast said.

“Believe it or not, they actually have newspapers in L.A.. Bryce Harriman's been all over the story.” Smithback's mouth twisted with distaste again. “Probably thinks he has every angle covered,” he said, clearly angling for his own information.

Gazing into his coffee cup for a moment, as if divining an answer there, Pendergast leaned a bit closer to Smithback and whispered one word, “Shreveport.”

Staring back at him with disbelief, Smithback said, “Shreve--“

Pendergast raised a finger in warning. “Shh. Well,” he stood up, “it was a pleasure running into you, Mr. Smithback, but I fear Lieutenant D'Agosta and I really must be on our way.”

“Yeah, sure, good to see you. Good luck with whatever you're not telling me about,” Smithback said as they got up, Pendergast dropping enough cash on the table to cover the bill and leave the waitress a generous tip.

“Good luck to you as well, Mr. Smithback,” Pendergast said, heading for the door.

D'Agosta looked back for a moment, not surprised to see Smithback already had his phone out, no doubt starting to pursue this lead, obscure as it was.

Outside on the sidewalk, heading for the car, he caught Pendergast by the arm. “Shreveport?”

Pendergast nodded. “Yes, Shreveport. Located in Caddo Parish, it's the third largest city in Louisiana, and was named for Captain Henry Miller Shreve. During the War of Northern Aggression, it actually served as the state capitol under the Confederacy--“

“You know you're a pain in the ass, right?”

Pendergast glanced at him with a slight smile. “It has been remarked, yes. All will be made clear over dinner, you have my word.”

D'Agosta wasn't sure he entirely believed that, but far be it for him to turn down a free meal.

  
Part Three   


“Is your steak all right?”

“What?” D'Agosta glanced over at Pendergast. “Yeah - no, it's good.” He shrugged, feeling a bit self-conscious in the swanky surroundings. “When you said grab a bite, I was thinking meat loaf and mashed potatoes at a diner, not filet mignon and,” he looked at Pendergast's plate, “wild boar at '21.' ”

“Wild boar _and_ Mangolista Pig,” Pendergast corrected mildly, smiling.

“Well, yeah, I never have one without the other.” D'Agosta shook his head, forking up another bite of steak and sautéed morels.

“Would you prefer meat loaf and mashed potatoes at a diner?”

“I'd worry less about using the wrong fork,” he said and could have sworn he saw a flash of concern cross Pendergast's face, as if the other man suspected he'd made some kind of faux pas. Hurrying to reassure him, D'Agosta said, “This is good, it's fine. It's good to change it up now and then.”

Looking more sure of himself, Pendergast nodded, took a sip of his wine. “It is. Enjoying a good meal with agreeable company is one of life's pleasures.”

Glad of the soft lighting, D'Agosta could feel a blush burning his face, not quite knowing how to take that comment. This whole evening had him feeling off balance.

After leaving Smithback, they had headed back to the precinct to get rid of all traces of Brother Leland and Brother Dale, and while those simple actions helped him with the whole decompression process, they had also supplied a sharp reminder about the nature of the rest of their undercover operation.

Earlier, when they had been changing into their disguises in the locker room, some other guys had been around, making some snarky remarks, giving D'Agosta some sympathetic looks at getting saddled with that FBI weirdo Pendergast. Nothing big, but it had given him a kind of buffer, keeping him from paying much attention as Pendergast had stripped down, for instance.

This time, however, they'd had the locker room to themselves, and it had been a lot harder to keep himself from shooting a look at Pendergast as the agent peeled out of the ill-fitting, thrift store suit. He'd felt unaccountably self-conscious too, abruptly aware that, while he had lost some weight, he still wasn't exactly buffed and ripped, especially compared to Pendergast. Not that he'd ever thought about what the other man might look like naked, but while Pendergast's muscle definitely wasn't bulked up and beefy, the lean lines of his pale body were hard and well-defined, a shaft of light picking up a glint of fine, blond hair on his chest and trailing down his stomach--

His face burned even more fiercely, remembering the inadvertent eyeful he'd gotten when Pendergast stepped, dripping wet, out of the shower after washing the dye gel out of his hair.

Head bent over his steak, as though cutting off a piece required surgical precision, D'Agosta reminded himself it wasn't like he'd gotten an erection or anything. He'd just … noticed. And lingered maybe a second or two longer than he should have as he noticed.

Not that Pendergast had been aware of that. D'Agosta was positive Pendergast had been utterly oblivious of anything going on.

If it hadn't been for last night's play-acting, crazy things like his “noticing” Pendergast wouldn't mean a thing. He needed to keep his focus on this just being an undercover operation. Otherwise this could really start feeling like a date, especially with that comfortable sense of intimacy back, making it feel like they were alone in their little corner of the room.

Come to think of it, D'Agosta mused, if tonight was anything typical, it would explain why Pendergast didn't seem to have much of a social life. Their conversation so far -- with Pendergast doing most of the talking -- had started with Chaos Theory, veered off into the Butterfly Effect, and diverged from there into time travel paradoxes and the possibility of parallel universes. Not exactly the usual dinner-time conversation, but D'Agosta guessed it could actually be a kind of compliment that Pendergast felt comfortable enough with him to be himself, and not struggle to make ordinary small talk.

“So, what about Shreveport?” D'Agosta asked, thinking it was about time they both laid their cards on the table. Besides, it would be a lot safer to keep his mind on the case. “That just something you pulled out of your hat to send Smithback on a wild goose chase?”

“On the contrary,” Pendergast paused to pat his lips with a napkin. “Should Mr. Smithback follow up on it with his customary gusto and ingenuity, he should arrive at the same discovery I did.”

“Which is?”

Considering it for a moment, Pendergast gave a slight nod at last and said, “Yes, I believe it is time we compared notes, as it were.”

“Do we flip a coin to decide who goes first?”

Pendergast smiled. “Not necessary.” Propping his elbows against the table, he steepled his fingers, peering inquisitively at D'Agosta. “It occurred to me that the profile we've constructed of the killer has been missing one crucial detail: the identity of the first victim.”

“Thought that was the nightclub owner in New Orleans,” D'Agosta said, digging out his notebook and flipping through the pages. “Paul Morrisey.”

“We didn't go back quite far enough,” Pendergast said. Resuming their meal, he explained that certain details of the crimes had struck a chord of memory and had prompted him to contact the New Orleans FBI office to help track it down. The details were that, five years ago, Remy Betancourt, a police officer in Shreveport, had been slain in a very similar manner. The case was still open.

“Betancourt was gay?”

“Yes,” Pendergast nodded. “None of his fellow officers knew, and he had only recently told his family.” He gave D'Agosta a significant look at that.

Taking a sip of water, D'Agosta asked, “Anyone remember how the family reacted?”

“Reportedly, not well.” Pendergast gave D'Agosta a slight nod for picking up on it. “A younger brother was especially vehement in his denunciation.”

“Vehement enough to make him a person of interest?”

Pendergast nodded. “Unfortunately they couldn't assemble a sufficiently strong enough case to bring charges, and while they were investigating further, the brother disappeared.”

“What was his name?”

“René Betancourt.”

“That's not one of the names on my list.” D'Agosta shook his head, knowing that would have been way too easy. “So he's using an alias. What about the tattoo?”

Pendergast nodded. “René had one matching Father Bradshaw's description, on his right arm.”

Turning the idea over, D'Agosta shook his head. “Hard to believe one brother could hate the other that much, especially over something like this.”

Pendergast glanced away, something suddenly distant in his manner as he said, “Brother against brother is one of the oldest stories in the world.”

“Yeah, guess that's true enough. Still…” D'Agosta was puzzled by the sudden, studied coolness between them, fairly certain it wasn't anything he'd said or done. Then, recalling that earlier, odd remark Pendergast had made about his own brother, D'Agosta asked, “You okay?”

Glancing back at him, smile forced, Pendergast nodded. “Quite well, thank you.”

Not quite buying that, but knowing this wasn't the time or place to press it, D'Agosta asked, “Did anyone in Shreveport mention a jazz band called Fleur-de-Lys?”

Pendergast shook his head, casting off whatever had distracted him to lean in a bit, an interested look in his eyes. “I believe you have the floor, Vincent.”

“Remember I was wondering what a straight guy was doing hanging around a gay bar.” D'Agosta said. “Well,” he went on at Pendergast's nod, “I've been wondering all along how to account for why the murders have occurred all around the country. The killer has to travel, right?”

“Correct.”

“So I asked myself who does a lot of traveling like that.”

“The ubiquitous drifter, of course. Long distance truckers, perhaps, sales people, or…?” Pendergast's raised his eyebrows inquisitively.

“Bands,” D'Agosta supplied. “It took a lot of phone calls, but I was able to confirm Fleur-de-Lys had played in every city where the previous murders occurred, at the right time, and they were playing at Diversions on the nights Congressman Blake, Jake Brannigan, Joel Rosenthal and Father Bradshaw were murdered.”

“That,” Pendergast said slowly, “strikes me as far too coincidental indeed.” He shook his head after a moment. “That wasn't the band playing there last night.”

“No, they've been having some down time. But,” D'Agosta looked at him and smiled, “guess who starts a return engagement tonight?”

Reaching across the table, Pendergast touched his arm lightly. “Well done, Vincent.” A glitter of excitement in his eyes, he added, “I find myself in the mood for some jazz this evening. What about you?”

~*~

“Do you have a particular suspect in mind?”

It struck Pendergast as a shame to have to bring up murder on such a lovely spring evening. Although strolling Greenwich Village's picturesque, cobblestoned streets with Vincent did go a considerable way toward blunting the sordidness ahead of them this night.

“Billy Dean Martel, the band's manager,” D'Agosta said. “Books their gigs, plans their tour, and gets everything set up for them ahead time, leaving himself plenty of time to scope out his new target if the urge strikes.”

“You've checked for any potential alibi?”

“Sure.”

“And?”

Waggling a hand in the universal iffy gesture, D'Agosta said, “Vague and dubious.”

Nodding, Pendergast took out his cell phone, locating a photograph the New Orleans office had faxed him. He held it up for D'Agosta to see. “That's René Betancourt, five years ago.”

D'Agosta studied it carefully, nodding his head. “He's lost the piercings and goatee, and grown his hair out, but yeah, that matches the description I've got of Billy Dean.”

“Excellent.” Turning possibilities over in his mind, Pendergast found himself arriving at the only solution with the potential to swiftly bring this terrible string of murders to an end - albeit carrying a high personal risk for both of them.

Glancing at the other man and noting his intently covetous expression, Pendergast checked to see what had arrested D'Agosta's attention. Parked at the curb, composed of gleaming chrome and black leather, it was undeniably attractive - and Pendergast couldn't entirely quell a desire to have Vincent look at him that way.

“Vincent? I didn't know you had a partiality for motorcycles.”

Broad shoulders lifting in an easy shrug, D'Agosta said, “My cousin Carmine had one when we were kids. Bought it for fifty bucks because it was a beat-up piece of junk ready for the scrap heap, but Carmine worked his ass off to get it running again. Finally got it going and took it out on the road for a test run - totaled it and himself. My mom and nonna just about made me take a blood oath to promise to never get on one of those death machines. Nonna even had one of her spells to back it up.”

Given Vincent was smiling with a sort of fond nostalgia at the story, Pendergast wasn't entirely sure how to react. “Her spells?”

D'Agosta flashed him a grin. “Yeah. She claimed she had the sight, visions of doom to come if we didn't heed her words of warning.”

“And did you heed her?” Pendergast asked as they crossed the street.

“Mostly I heeded my dad's advice about Carmine being too dumb to live, but everybody was happy.”

Hesitating a moment, Pendergast asked, “And Cousin Carmine?”

“Oh, he lived, all right. He sells used cars over in Jersey now.”

“So I'm not likely to see you on a Harley anytime soon?”

Laughing, Vincent said, “Nah, not anytime soon. But, you know, check back in about ten years when I'm having a mid-life crisis.”

“I thought those were most often heralded by dating 20-year-old, surgically enhanced blondes and driving red sports cars.”

“Well that's the route Carmine's taking, and he's only three years older than me.”

“How is it working for him?”

“Not great. His wife kicked him out and is threatening to take him to the cleaners. Last update I had, Carmine called me up and asked if there was a way a guy could tell if his wife'd taken out a hit on him.”

Pausing at the wrought iron railing that framed the areaway steps down to Diversions, Pendergast gave D'Agosta an uncertain look. “What did you tell him?”

“Learn to duck.”

Half-convinced his leg was being pulled, Pendergast said, “Perhaps one should view that as an object lesson, regarding mid-life crisis, and exert oneself to find a better alternative when the time comes.”

“That's what I'm thinking, yeah,” D'Agosta said, starting down the steps.

Tonight's work, Pendergast knew, held a potential to bring about a different kind of crisis - a fatal one, perhaps. Vincent was well aware of that, of course, but still, resting a hand on D'Agosta's arm to halt him at the bottom, Pendergast said, voice low and urgent, “If you have any doubts about our plan tonight, Vincent, tell me now. There are other ways to stop him.”

Expression turning somewhat truculent, D'Agosta whispered back, “And if he picks someone else out of the crowd tonight and they die because we chickened out?”

“It's not a matter of chickening out,” Pendergast said, and waited for a couple of other patrons to jostle past them before adding, “We can monitor him, make certain no one comes to harm--“

“And if there's some fuck up in the surveillance and he slips away?” D'Agosta shook his head. “We do it like we planned. Or don't you think I'm up to it?”

“I am eminently confident in your abilities, Vincent. It's only that…”

“What?”

Meeting his eyes directly, Pendergast said, “I dislike placing you in harm's way.”

Dark eyes softening, D'Agosta touched his arm, rubbing gently. “You're not placing me anywhere. It's my job; let me do it.”

Nodding, moved by D'Agosta's determination to stick it out, and by that reassuring touch, Pendergast said, “Forgive me; you're perfectly right, of course.”

Smile wry, D'Agosta said, “I have my moments. So,” he waved at the entrance, a nearby poster announcing Fleur-de-Lys' exclusive engagement, “showtime?”

“Indeed,” Pendergast said, and held the door for him.

~*~

 _"He walks every day through the streets of New Orleans  
He's innocent and young, from a family of means  
I have stood many nights outside his window at night  
To struggle with my instinct in the pale moonlight  
How could I be this way when I pray to God above  
I must love what I destroy and destroy the thing I love  
Oh you'll never see my shade or hear the sound of my feet  
While there's a moon over Bourbon Street..."_

Fleur-de-Lys turned out to be a quintet: piano, trumpet, tenor sax, drums and guitar. The guitarist provided the vocals. Although Pendergast's appreciation of the music had not appreciably shifted, the knowledge this band was their link to the killer increased his interest considerably - and the lyrics of this particular song intrigued him a bit. “Vincent, do you know this song?”

“Yeah, think it's by Sting.”

The name rang only the faintest of bells. “Sting?”

“You know, the singer, pop star, whatever, used to be the front man of The Police.”

“You kind of look like him,” was the opinion offered by Dan Brady, a new friend they had acquired. Although in Pendergast's estimation, Dan's primary interest was in D'Agosta.

A few years older than he and Vincent, Dan had horned his way in rather smoothly, saying he'd noticed them the night before and just wanted to say hello. That quick hello had drawn itself out considerably, however, with Dan making a point of bringing to Vincent's attention to all the things Dan had going for him; in particular, all the things they had in common. One especially animated slice of conversation had revolved around the Yankees' prospects this season.

The message was fairly clear: Dump Pendergast and come have a lot more fun with Dan.

Pendergast had been rather gratified to catch Vincent stifling a yawn and rolling his eyes a couple of times as Dan talked on and on and on.

D'Agosta glanced at Dan now, peered more closely at Pendergast, shook his head. “Maybe a little. I think Sting's a lot shorter.”

Not even slightly inclined to decipher any of that, Pendergast returned to his original question. “What is the song about?”

“Vampires,” Dan said.

“Vampires?” Pendergast looked at D'Agosta, who could only shrug a reply.

“You know, New Orleans, Anne Rice, Lestat,” Dan said, staring at both of them as if finding their lack of pop culture knowledge more astonishing than if an actual vampire were to walk into the club. “You gotta know Lestat; you'd _make_ a hell of a Lestat, just have to grow your hair long.” Seeing Pendergast's lack of comprehension, Dan shook his head, looked back at D'Agosta, “Where'd you find him, Vinnie, in a cave?”

D'Agosta glanced at Pendergast, looked quickly away - but not quite before Pendergast saw his grin.  
“Something like that, yeah,” D'Agosta said.

Suspecting he sounded a bit prim and prissy, Pendergast said, “Yes, well, we can't all have spent our youth watching MTV and reading supernatural potboilers.” Nevertheless, he supposed his pop culture knowledge could use some expanding.

“Hey, don't knock it,” Dan said. “Those outsider vampires gave me someone to identify with growing up. Closest thing I had to gay role models for a long time. Hey!” Sliding out of the booth, waving at a new arrival across the room, Dan said, “Gotta go, guys, my date's here.” He lingered a moment, however, green eyes assessing D'Agosta once more in a way Pendergast was finding rather disagreeable. “See you around, Vinnie?”

Broad shoulders lifting in a non-committal shrug, D'Agosta said, “Yeah, maybe,” and met Dan's eyes with a slight smile that could only give Dan a sense of encouragement.

Waiting until Dan was well out of earshot, Pendergast said, “He seems quite taken with you.”

“Hey, you're the one pimping me out.”

“I suggested you appear approachable. It's hardly the same thing.”

“You say tomahto, I say tomayto.” D'Agosta sighed, sitting back and shaking his head, thoughtful as he studied Dan, some of the other men in the club. “Can you imagine that, feeling like the only one you can compare yourself to, who'd understand you, is a vampire? Talk about a fucked up way to have to grow up.”

“Would your parents have been accepting if you told them you were gay?”

Sighing, D'Agosta shook his head, pushing his glass of Bud around the table. “I don't know. Maybe not.” He shrugged again. “I'll tell you this, though: I'd want my kids to feel they could tell me anything, come to me with something like that, not have to grow up thinking they're all alone.”

Pendergast nodded, touched his arm. “Loneliness is a not an uncommon childhood condition, regardless of sexual orientation,” he said, and feared he may have said too much as D'Agosta turned to regard him in a measuring way, as though intuiting a great deal left unsaid.

“You know something about that?” D'Agosta asked, warm dark eyes concerned, as if it could matter even now.

It would be easy enough to turn him aside - turn him away. That _was_ standard operating procedure. How astonishing, then, to hear himself say, “Something, perhaps. I sometimes suspect a sense of reserve is hardwired into my family's DNA,” he added, trying to lighten the moment.

D'Agosta didn't look as if he was buying into that, however. “I'm sorry,” he said, touching Pendergast's hand.

That comforting caress, so warm and infused with a gentle affection, nearly stopped his breath for a moment. Looking away, clearing his throat, Pendergast said, “It was a long time ago.” Feeling a bit more in control, he looked back at D'Agosta, trusting his smile wasn't as weak as it felt. “We all are the sum of our experiences, Vincent.”

Appearing to find little comfort in that, D'Agosta clasped his hand, squeezing gently. “Yeah, I can see that.”

This was ridiculous, Pendergast thought. Only last night he had been contemplating the idea of exploring a greater intimacy with Vincent; now, when a real possibility of that presented itself, his first instinct was to push him away.

Seeking refuge in work, he carefully withdrew his hand from D'Agosta's gentle grasp, and said, “Excuse me, I should make some phone calls.” It wasn't the most adroit maneuver he had ever attempted, but his usual dexterity was proving rather hard to locate at the moment.

Uncomfortable under Vincent's gentle scrutiny, he hastened to explain, “I have an associate who may be able to unearth some information on Billy Dean Martel that can link him, definitively, to René Betancourt.”

“Sure, sure,” D'Agosta nodded. “Definitive proof's always good.” There wasn't a doubt in Pendergast's mind that Vincent could see straight through him at this precise moment.

~*~

Watching Pendergast retreat down the hall, D'Agosta couldn't help wondering just how much was being left unsaid. Volumes, he suspected, and loaded with landmines between the lines. His natural instinct was to help, but figuring out how to go about that wasn't exactly lit up in neon, with an arrow pointing the way.

Likely Pendergast would advise him -- most courteously, of course -- to butt out. He couldn't say that was a bad idea. Something else his gut feeling told him was Pendergast didn't go around swapping confidences with just anyone. Give him time - and space - and D'Agosta would be very much surprised if more revelations didn't come along.

Who knew? Maybe in five, ten years, he'd even find out Pendergast's first name.

He had to smile at the conversation they'd had about that on the way over - _“What, I'm supposed to sell it that in passionate moments I call you Special Agent Pendergast?” “Very Special Agent, perhaps.”_ \- and glanced back down the hallway, locking eyes for an instant with a 25-year-old kid, average height and build, spiky black hair, and icy blue eyes that, in that flash of contact, were loaded with contempt. In the next moment, a trace of warmth crept into them, as he gave D'Agosta a wink and what was probably meant to be a come-hither smile.

Billy Dean Martel, aka René Betancourt.

Oh yeah, it was showtime, all right.

  
Part Four   


Billy Dean tilted his beer bottle, letting the beer fill his mouth, taking his time about swallowing. He liked to take things slow, savor every moment. It's why he liked using a knife, liked the way a sharp blade sliced and cut; liked the way the blood dripped and oozed. It was hard work that way, close work, getting all slippery from the blood, but looking into their eyes, hearing the rattle of their last breath - holy shit, there wasn't any bigger turn-on in all the world. Using a gun just did not give that kind of kick.

The hell of it was, he'd almost got it out of his system, for good this time.

He'd believed that before, thought he'd done enough, but then he'd met Rachel, heard her daddy preach, and got all fired up again to go out and do God's work. Man'd have to be made a stone, Billy Dean figured, to resist a force like that: Reverend Tyler's preaching getting him worked up, and Rachel urging him on, getting hot and excited when he'd told her what he'd done, squealing over her presents. Drove a guy crazy, Rachel did, refusing to open her legs for him until he'd put a ring on her finger and her daddy'd pronounced them man and wife. All she'd do was go down on him, 'cause that didn't count. That, plus feeling up her tits, was good, but holy shit, a man needed more.

His own hand did a mighty fine job, though, and Billy Dean rested back against the bar, thinking about jerking off later tonight, when he'd done that cop over there.

The priest had been good, left him feeling cleansed and satisfied. Billy Dean had seem him in the news, announcing he was gay for all the world to see, bragging about it; preaching about it and saying God's love and mercy was for everyone. That's when Billy Dean decided to kill him. Sitting in that church, listening to the priest blaspheme, spewing lies and twisting minds - it had turned his stomach, made him want to slaughter the priest right there on his heathen altar, make an offering of him to God.

So, yeah, it had felt good, killing that priest, but it was all faded away by now, leaving him with that empty feeling. That cop, though -- Billy Dean bet that would finally finish it for him, bringing him full circle, back to Remy,

He hated faggot cops worse than anything. And this guy, this D'Agosta, was the worst kind, leaving his wife and kids to be with that cocksucker in the undertaker suit. And then that wasn't even enough for him, Billy Dean thought, watching the cop over at a pool table, letting himself get felt up.

That was good for Billy Dean, though, made his job easy. He'd work it, get this D'Agosta interested, promise him a blow job like he'd never had before, and when Billy Dean got him alone, got him somewhere quiet and private and dark…

Fingers tightening on the neck of the bottle, Billy Dean thought about taking it with him, breaking it and using the razor sharp glass to cut up the cop. Billy Dean'd never done that, never used a broken bottle for his work. Wasn't sure it'd work as good.

No, better to stick to what had worked for him this long. You didn't mess with perfection, he thought, smiling at the thought, at the party to come. Like they said back home: _Laissez les bon temps coule_ \- let the good times roll.

~*~

“So, you got one of those profiles drawn up for this psycho, Lieutenant?”

D'Agosta looked at the speaker - Billy Dean, drawl thicker and more pronounced than Pendergast's - and shrugged. “Feds probably have one. They always think they understand things better than us regular cops.”

“You got your own idea of who it is?” Billy Dean was sidling closer and it was taking a whole lot of effort for D'Agosta to not pull away.

He'd been doing a good job with this. He'd flinched a little when Dan had come over, sliding an arm around his waist, but thought he'd covered that pretty good. If he didn't exactly like Dan pawing him, at least Dan didn't make his skin crawl. Billy Dean was a different matter entirely.

“Probably the usual,” D'Agosta said as Dan lined up a shot. “Hearing voices that tell him to kill, maybe with some repressed sexuality issues--“

Billy Dean flared up at that, just for a second; no one but D'Agosta noticed. “What, he's queer himself and does this instead of coming outta the closet?”

D'Agosta shrugged. “Wouldn't be the first time somebody's self-hatred took them that far.” Hard to tell if that had been a solid hit or not. Wouldn't the odds be against Billy Dean/René being gay just like the brother he'd murdered? Pendergast would probably know those statistics better than him.

And where had Pendergast disappeared to anyway? He couldn't still be yakking on the phone, D'Agosta thought, glancing around the room, but not spotting him anywhere in the crowd.

Back under control, Billy Dean tipped back his beer bottle, taking a slow swig, pretty clearly preening for D'Agosta's benefit. “That's all y'all got, though? Just some theories? Wasn't there none of that DNA?”

D'Agosta spread his hands in a hell-if-I-know gesture. “Like I said, I'm not really in the loop on everything.” He mentally knocked on wood for having dodged the media pretty well so far; glad of Captain Lackey being eager to hog the spotlight at every news conference and _Today Show_ interview. If Billy Dean had caught any glimpse of him on the TV news or in the papers, he would have looked like one of dozens of cops on the fringes of the case.

“And you and your FBI boyfriend,” Billy Dean was right beside him now, thigh pressed against D'Agosta's, “you don't share pillow talk about all that?”

D'Agosta was glad of the mental images - thinking of Pendergast as a boyfriend and sharing pillow talk with him - because they provided enough of a distraction to keep him from reacting to Billy Dean invading his personal space. “Yeah, well,” it took every ounce of willpower he had to stay put as Billy Dean's shoulder brushed his, the younger man pressing in on him, “that would kind of kill of mood.”

“Yeah, I can see that all right.” Billy Dean smiled, running a hand lightly along D'Agosta's back like he was looking for something, stopping at his waist and resting there with an easy familiarity. “You carrying a gun?”

“Not off duty.” It had been a tough decision, leaving his sidearm behind. He understood the reasoning, that the killer wasn't likely to approach him if he was packing. No need to mention the backup strapped to his leg, of course; Billy Dean wouldn't be feeling him up that far if D'Agosta had anything to say about it.

“You've got your badge, though, right?”

“Oh yeah.”

Eager now, like a little kid, Billy Dean asked, “Can I see?”

A sick feeling in his belly, D'Agosta took the wallet out of his pocket, opening it to display the gold shield. Eyes lighting up, Billy Dean reached over to touch it, fingers running over the metal covetously. “Wow, that is totally cool.”

Tucking it away, D'Agosta guessed he knew what trophy Billy Dean was planning to take back to his girlfriend tonight.

“Hey,” Dan was back with them, patting D'Agosta's arm and giving Billy Dean a mock challenging look, “you trying to move in on my guy, Vinnie, here?”

Holding up his hands and taking a couple steps back, Billy Dean said, “Just making friends. Didn't know anybody'd called dibs.”

“Yeah, well,” Dan slung a friendly arm across D'Agosta's shoulders, “now you know.”

If D'Agosta could have done without Dan's possessive attitude, at least it wasn't making him want to crawl out of skin. He wasn't quite sure what was going on here, some kind of territorial thing, but it looked like Billy Dean was conceding Dan had the upper hand. He moved off anyway, over to the stage to have a word with the band as they were getting ready for another set. It gave D'Agosta a chance to draw his first easy breath in a long time.

“Somebody really needs to take that punk hustler down a few pegs,” Dan muttered, easing off D'Agosta now.

Shooting him a surprised look, D'Agosta said, “Hustler? Thought he managed the band?”

“Oh, I'm sure he does - _and_ is stealing them blind. I've seen the type too many times, Vinnie, out for himself and not caring about any harm he does along the way. You want to steer clear of that type, Vinnie,” Dan said, enough feeling in his tone that D'Agosta could tell this was personal.

“Been down that road yourself?”

“Couple of times.” Dan shrugged, not wanting to make too much of it. “Part of the learning process, right?”

“I guess. I'm kind of new at all this.” That much wasn't a lie. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd been on a date.

Turning back to the pool table, lining up shots, D'Agosta found it easy to field Dan's questions, getting a good idea of where Dan was going. What intrigued him were the contrasts he was discovering.

If this wasn't all playacting, if he really were gay and didn't know Billy Dean was a killer, he still couldn't see himself being attracted to the younger man. There was a quality to him -- of smarmy insincerity masquerading as boyish charm -- that would have rankled no matter what. Dan was probably working a technique, too, most people did when they were looking for a hookup, but it was in the way of cheesy pick-up lines and what's-your-sign. D'Agosta could see that working for him a lot of the time, coming across as endearing and catching someone's interest.

Not his, though, and that was the really interesting thing. As Dan bestowed his little attentions, a touch here, a brush of bodies there, D'Agosta found he didn't have to fight down any kind of reaction. Dan probably had a lot of good qualities going for him, but none of it was pushing D'Agosta's buttons. Just remembering Pendergast doing the same thing, however - their shoulders brushing, the way Pendergast's lips had brushed his ear - sent a shiver up his spine even now. Dan took it for an encouraging sign, cupping the nape of his neck, but D'Agosta knew it was all about Pendergast. Whatever buttons he had, Pendergast was the only who could work them.

What that meant… ? Hell if he knew that, either.

He could talk to someone about it - but who? Somehow he couldn't picture telling Pendergast, _“You know, I'm kind of getting turned on here.”_ In fact, just thinking about that fairly well mortified him. Telling Lydia was equally out of the question. So … it would have to be a secret, something hidden away and gathering dust. Maybe that really would take care of it. Wrap this case up, go their separate ways for awhile, and by the time his and Pendergast's orbit coincided again it would just be a distant, crazy memory drained of any real power.

Funny how he felt a stubborn resistance to that idea. There was probably little sense in trying to figure that out, either.

“So,” Dan was toying with D'Agosta's hair, tugging at the curls that were starting to show because he hadn't gotten a haircut lately, “how exclusive are you and Pendergast? Because I could see us having a pretty good time together.”

D'Agosta couldn't say why that rubbed him the wrong way, why the crazy, outlandish thought jumped into his head that Dan had overstepped some boundary, tried to stake a claim to something that only Pendergast had a right to. He bit back the first words that leaped to his tongue and while he was working out a more neutral substitute, Pendergast finally turned up out of the blue, fixing him, then Dan, with a cool look.

“Could you really?” Pendergast said, icy enough to frost a brass monkey.

It was a good thing D'Agosta knew this was all for show, otherwise he could have really believed Pendergast was pissed.

~*~

Searching for a private place to make his calls, Pendergast had found a room set aside for special occasions.

Like the rest of the club, it was furnished with an eye to comfort. Couches, club chairs, a dining area at one end and a small bar - all dominated by a large-screen television. Once he'd turned on a couple of table lamps, it served Pendergast's purposes quite well - which had far more to do with gathering his composure than making any phone calls.

His thoughts immediately went back to Vincent, wishing he'd brought the man in here with him, even though that would have rather defeated the purpose.

With his calls completed, Pendergast slipped back out of the room, bracing himself against the door for a moment as he contemplated what lay ahead this night if their plan worked as intended. All of a sudden that “if” loomed exceedingly large and powerful. It was impossible to foresee every eventuality, to cover every base. If something went wrong, if Vincent…

In his mind, images of Vincent, horribly dead, overlaid themselves with Helen's death in an horrific collage. It took a tremendous effort to banish it, to compose himself, his thoughts, again.

Pushing away from the door, he nodded to himself, resolve firmed. The plan could be aborted with no harm done. They could keep Billy Dean under surveillance, move in the instant it looked like he was targeting another victim. Vincent wouldn't like it, but Pendergast was entirely willing to deal with a truculent Vincent D'Agosta. Particularly as the alternative, suddenly so real and imminent in his mind's eye, was unthinkable.

Back in the main room, he did a quick reconnaissance as the band began another set. He spotted Billy Dean lounging against a pool table. Perhaps his imagination projected something that wasn't there, but Pendergast could have sworn there was a predatory glint in Billy Dean's eyes as he looked at Vincent. Ephemeral as that might be, it was certainly no flight of fancy that Dan was energetically renewing his advances upon Vincent.

As for the rapid jolt of jealousy accompanying this observation - watching Dan edge ever closer to Vincent, touching his back, his shoulders, playing with the unruly curls at the nape of Vincent's neck - that _was_ utterly astonishing.

Controlling that, meaning to use it to lend authenticity to his role, Pendergast headed over there, in time to hear Dan blatantly propositioning Vincent--

“So how exclusive are you and Pendergast? Because I could see us having a pretty good time together.”

“Could you really?” Pendergast said, catching Vincent's eyes for a moment, gratified at the flash of relief he glimpsed there, before focusing all his attention on Dan. “Precisely what is it you envision?”

“That's between me and Vinnie,” Dan said. “Vinnie--“

“Vincent,” Pendergast had successfully maneuvered himself between them, forcing Dan to relinquish his octopus-like hold on Vincent, “we need to have a word.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Vincent turned back to the pool table, clearly remembering the particulars of his role much more clearly, “just let me finish the game here.”

“Now,” Pendergast said, firmly, grasping his arm and pulling him away.

Vincent gave him an odd look, as if he didn't quite understand something, but said, “Yeah, okay, just hold your horses, will you?” When Dan and Billy Dean made as if to further interpose themselves, Vincent held up his hands, saying, “Hey, relax guys. Just a little misunderstanding. Nothing to get excited about.”

Before things could escalate any further, Vincent caught Pendergast's arm, tugging him away, whispering when they were out of earshot, “What the hell was that about? Thought the idea was for you to storm off in a huff so Billy Dean could offer to console me.”

Still smarting with indignation, Pendergast said, “I don't believe the word _huff_ was used. And in any case,” he steered Vincent down the narrow hall and into the private room, “there's been a change in plans.”

~*~

Pacing over to the small bar, trying to get his temper under control, D'Agosta looked over at Pendergast, still standing by the closed door. After he'd pulled down a half dozen calming breaths, he said, “Say that again.”

“I want to call this off and put our suspect under surveillance.”

Okay, so he hadn't misheard that part after all. Drawing another deep breath, letting it out slow, D'Agostsa asked, “Why?”

Cool and distant, as if reciting by rote, Pendergast said, “It has become clear to me that the unorthodox nature of this operation runs the risk of jeopardizing any case we might hope to make against Billy Dean.”

Nodding slowly, D'Agosta said, “Is that a fact? And, just like that,” he snapped his fingers, “you're mister dot every i, follow procedure down to the finest detail, do everything by the book? That's a better transformation than Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”

“Vincent…” Composure starting to show some cracks, Pendergast ran a hand back through his hair, ruffling it a bit. “I just…”

“What?” Coming closer, D'Agosta searched his features, looking for some kind of clue about what was going on here. “What is up with you? I told you, Billy Dean's got me on his radar--“

“That's what I'm afraid of,” Pendergast said, looking more troubled than D'Agosta had ever seen him. “What if something goes wrong?”

“What's going to go wrong?”

“Vincent,” Pendergast stepped closer, something close to anxiety coming off him, “if I could foresee it, it would cease to be a risk.”

“Look,” D'Agosta reached out, tapping a hand against Pendergast's chest, “if something gets fucked up, we'll adjust. I can think on my feet you know.”

“I am not casting doubts on your abilities,” Pendergast said - and when D'Agosta would have taken his hand away, Pendergast caught hold of it, kept it there, pressed against his chest. “It's just…” Trailing off, he shook his head, as if frustrated at not finding the words - or not being able to say them. And still he wouldn't release D'Agosta's hand.

“Pendergast,” D'Agosta kept himself still, some sixth sense telling him this was both incredibly important and terribly fragile. “What is it? What's eating you about all this?”

Shaking his head again, Pendergast looked into his face, his own expression so very troubled. “Call it a premonition?”

“A premonition? Of what?”

“Of--“ Pendergast caught himself for a moment, lips compressed, as though to voice the fear would be to make it actually happen. “Of you being hurt, of your dying. I…” He shook his head again, voice almost inaudible now. “I don't believe I could bear that.”

It was on the tip of D'Agosta's tongue to make a joke, lighten things up by pointing out that wouldn't exactly be a barrel of fun for him, either. The words died unspoken, however, because Pendergast was reaching out, long fingers touching his face, trailing along his cheek and down along his jaw line. D'Agosta started to speak. “Pendergast…”

“Aloysius.”

“What?”

Pendergast moved in closer, cheek brushing D'Agosta's, lips brushing the tip of an ear. “My name is Aloysius,” he murmured, a hand gliding up D'Agosta's back, across his shoulders, fingers snarling in the curls at the nape of his neck - and that sensation was a million times more intense than the unwanted, clumsy mauling he'd been subjected to earlier.

“Oh. Alo--“ He couldn't quite draw enough breath to finish, what with the way Pendergast was kissing the side of his neck, and D'Agosta found it was vitally necessary to wrap his arms around Pendergast's lean form and hold on tight.

“--ysius,” Pendergast finished. “Quite ridiculous, of course.”

“No, it,” damn, he couldn't remember his breathing being so erratic before, “it suits you.” Without conscious thought, guided by he knew not what impulse - only certain of the amazing, mind-blowing _rightness_ of it - D'Agosta curved a hand along the back of Pendergast's neck, kneading, blunt fingers sliding into blond silk as Pendergast turned, seeking his mouth.

 _This wasn't role-playing; this wasn't make-believe. Not for either of them,_ D'Agosta thought as Pendergast kissed his mouth. D'Agosta didn't try to stop him, didn't even think about it until a noise distracted him, somebody smacking a fist against the door.

“Hey!” It was Dan, pushing his way inside, demanding, “Everything okay in here?”

And because he could adjust and think on his feet, instead of telling Dan to fuck the hell off, D'Agosta pulled away from Pendergast, gave him a hard push - and Jesus, that was hard, especially with a flash of real hurt in Pendergast's eyes, and said, “As a matter of fact, no, it isn't.”

“Yeah?” Dan looked like he was eager to be a hero. “What do you want me to do, Vinnie?”

He couldn't take his eyes off Pendergast, anymore than Pendergast could stop looking at D'Agosta. “Nothing, just… I gotta get outta here,” D'Agosta said when Pendergast gave him a sharp, quick nod.

How could it be so damn hard to push his way out of the room, leave Pendergast behind? D'Agosta didn't have an answer for that. The world had turned upside down on him, and he didn't know if it would ever look the same to him again.

He'd made it back to the main room, trying to compose himself, needing to be on his toes from this point on. Catching Billy Dean's eye, D'Agosta shrugged, shook his head, trying to convey that everything had gone to hell.

“Rough night, huh?” Billy Dean said, coming over, patting D'Agosta's shoulder. If he noticed the involuntary shudder, Billy Dean attributed to D'Agosta being distraught. “Anything I can do?”

“No, no,” D'Agosta shook his head, starting for the door. “I just want to get out of here, go home.”

“Hey,” Billy Dean hurried to keep up with him, “let me walk you out.”

D'Agosta nodded, “Sure, okay.” He climbed the steps, back up to the street, pulling in some deep breaths, getting himself centered.

“Listen,” Billy Dean caught hold of his arm, giving him a friendly tug, “you _don't_ want to be alone right now. Believe me. Come on, I know a little place just down here,” he gestured in a vague direction. “We'll have a cup of coffee, cry on each other's shoulders.” Billy Dean flashed him a smile meant to be engaging. “Who knows what could happen?”

Yeah, who knew?

Resisting the urge to look back over his shoulder and check whether Pendergast was backing him up, D'Agosta nodded and fell into step beside Billy Dean, alert for the slightest signal that the killer was ready to strike.

~*~

Impatiently trying to push his way past Dan, desperation curling tight in his stomach, Pendergast abandoned finesse. Catching hold of Dan's shoulder in an iron grip, Pendergast aimed a solid hit to Dan's chin that sent the other man stumbling back against the chairs and table and - after one fruitless attempt to lunge toward Pendergast, only to be cold-cocked again - went down like a stone.

With his lips still tingling from Vincent's kiss, Pendergast hurried back out to the main room, in time to see Vincent and Billy Dean leaving. His efforts to reach them were frustrated, though, as everyone in the club seemed suddenly determined to become an impediment to his progress.

Pushing and shoving, he finally made it outside … only to come to a dead stop.

Vincent and Billy Dean were nowhere to be seen.

He sagged against the iron railing, his desperation turning frantic now.

Absurdly, music from the club spilled outside, catching his attention as his mind raced.

 _“Sometimes you picture me--  
I'm walking too far ahead  
you're calling to me, I can't hear  
what you've said--  
Then you say--go slow--  
I fall behind--  
the second hand unwinds _

_If you're lost you can look--and you will find me  
time after time  
If you fall I will catch you--I will be waiting  
time after time _

_After my picture fades and darkness has  
turned to gray  
watching through windows--you're wondering  
if I'm OK  
secrets stolen from deep inside  
the drum beats out of time…”_

  
Part Five   


What had started out to be a beautiful spring evening had turned cold and damp, with a ghostly quality to the streetlamps gleaming in the mist along the deserted streets.

 _It was a good night for a murder._

Unbidden, that morbid thought passed through D'Agosta's mind as he walked along with Billy Dean, making a point to keep about a step behind the younger man. _“The killer strikes from behind, slicing left to right and cutting the carotid arteries and trachea. Death would be almost instantaneous, with the majority of the other wounds inflicted post-mortem.”_ That had been the M.E.'s pronouncement at the first autopsy, and the second, and third… Father Brannigan's had been the only one changing the pattern as he'd been able to fend off the worst of that first attack and put up a hell of a fight for his life.

D'Agosta kept that fact filed away as well.

“Hey, come on,” Billy Dean paused to turn up the collar of his coat, “let's get out of this wet, Vinnie,” he said, reaching over to tug at D'Agosta's arm.

“Nah, I like the rain.” Carefully detaching himself, walking backwards so Billy Dean was squarely in his sights, D'Agosta said, “I spend a lot of time cooped up in the office; this feels good.”

Billy Dean laughed, nodded. “Sure, I can see that,” he said, catching up, D'Agosta falling that step behind again.

That position made it kind of tricky to steer them in the direction of the prearranged spot he and Pendergast had picked out, but D'Agosta stuck to it, resisting every effort of Billy Dean's to drag him off to some secluded spot. The hardest part of that was having to fake responding to Billy Dean's advances, the offers to show him a real good time that would make him forget all about Pendergast.

Fat chance of that, when D'Agosta could have sworn his lips were still on fire from Pendergast's kiss - but he couldn't afford to dwell on that, not now. He needed to be on his game like never before, not mooning over a kiss, no matter how mind-blowing.

Fending Billy Dean off again, making it seem as playful as he could, D'Agosta caught Billy Dean's hands before they could wind behind his back, telling him, “You know, I know a little place, just up here, where we could have some privacy.”

“Yeah?” Billy Dean grinned, a predatory gleam in the dark. “No prying eyes?”

“Not a one.”

Billy Dean's grin got even wider, and D'Agosta tried like hell not to flinch as Billy Dean ran a hand down his back. “Sounds like my kind of place, Vinnie. Lead the way,” he said, stepping back and waving his hand in an expansive gesture.

D'Agosta matched the gesture, insisting Billy Dean go first -- keeping him right where D'Agosta wanted him.

And where the hell was Pendergast?

~*~

If he needed a reminder of why falling in love was a danger best avoided, Pendergast had it now. It shouldn't have taken two lessons to drive that home.

Nor was this the time for self-castigation. Calming himself, centering himself, Pendergast rapidly reviewed the plan they had made, that Vincent would guide Billy Dean to Sanctuary Park - _“More of a cubby-hole,”_ Vincent had remarked when they had stopped to look it over. It was a forgotten patch of the city, a tiny enclosure of wilderness established by a church in the neighborhood, but long-abandoned. Ideal for their purposes, however, and Pendergast had to keep faith that Vincent was headed there now.

While his progress in the club had been obstructed, out here it almost felt as if he had this pocket of Manhattan all to himself. Moving swiftly through the cold, wet night, he had nearly shaken off that ominous sense of foreboding, only to come to a dead stop as two gunshots exploded in the night.

~*~

Cornball as it might be, D'Agosta kept wishing Pendergast had said he'd hoot like an owl or something to let D'Agosta know he was in position. That little bit of reassurance would have felt pretty good right about now.

By daylight, this scrap of ground had possessed a kind of beat up charm. A wrought-iron gate, flaking with rust, had creaked open under Pendergast's quick work with his lock picks - and the agent had produced a tiny can of oil to lubricate those rusty hinges. Within, the tiny space was crowded with trees, and weeds poked up through cracked paving stones that were strewn with fallen leaves and broken branches. There was a stone bench, too, chipped and weathered, a match to the cross opposite.

It was beautiful in the way ruins could be, and carried an aura of hallowed ground that had almost made D'Agosta balk at the idea of using it to trap their killer. As Pendergast had pointed out, that was a crucial element in the plan - _“I believe he will find this setting, in the parlance, a turn on.”_ D'Agosta couldn't argue with that.

Now, barely illuminated by the feeble light of a street lamp some yards away, and wreathed in that chill mist, the place had lost its charm and taken on an eerie, sinister aspect.

Ushering Billy Dean through the gate, D'Agosta reined in his imagination and sharpened his focus.

“Wow,” prowling the edges of the compact space, Billy Dean was drinking it all up, gaze lingering on that stone cross, “this is totally cool, Vinnie. How'd you know about it?”

Offhand, D'Agosta shrugged, said, “Just stumbled across it during an investigation. Looked like a good place to dump a body.”

“That a cop thing?” Billy Dean was running a hand along the cross, glancing over at the bench, like he was painting a picture in his mind. “Looking at everything like it could be a crime scene?”

“Sometimes, yeah. It's a psycho killer thing, too.”

Billy Dean shot him a quick look, uncertainty wavering in his eyes for a split second. Then he smiled, left off fondling the cross, and moved around to the bench - a position that put him directly behind D'Agosta. “I couldn't do your job, man. All that blood and death,” he was tracing a finger along D'Agosta's spine, “must be hard to take.”

Not tensing up - not turning around and cracking his fist into Billy Dean's jaw - was just about the hardest thing D'Agosta had ever done. Another second, just one second, though, and he'd have all the probable cause in the world. Even so, with the slight rustle of clothing alerting him Billy Dean was sliding out his knife, that second stretched out like an hour as Billy Dean's left arm snaked around him, holding him in a way that went from seductive to dangerous at light speed. “Is that why you're a fag, Vinnie?” Billy Dean was breathing hard, almost panting, like he was getting a hard on in anticipation of the bloody slaughter ahead. “'Cause getting it up the ass takes the edge off?”

Feigning surprise, D'Agosta said, “Hey, what're you doing?” as Billy Dean gripped him even tighter, a spark of light glinting off the knife blade as it slashed at D'Agosta's throat.

This was when the other men had died, in between one breath and the next, shock instantly transformed to terror as that knife came down, cutting deep into their flesh, their blood spurting out and taking their life with it. Billy Dean was so practiced at it, he probably didn't even have to think about it. Like Pendergast was always saying, a bad habit but hard to break, and not easy to adjust, either, when your target knew what was coming.

D'Agosta had rehearsed this in his mind a hundred times, tried it out with Pendergast -- maybe that's why it played out in a surreal blur now: shooting an arm out to block Billy Dean's, knocking it back, twisting, turning, Billy Dean clawing back, dragging D'Agosta to the ground, both of them tumbling over the broken, leaf-littered stone, struggling for the knife. Catching hold of Billy Dean's wrist, D'Agosta smashed it against the paving stones, again, again, not knowing if it was twigs or bones he heard cracking.

The knife clattered to the stone, D'Agosta scrambled to his feet, kicked it away, heard a sound behind him - “Pendergast?” Half-turning, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye - Billy Dean snatching the knife up again, lunging - D'Agosta grabbed for the backup strapped to his ankle - drew, aimed, fired - once, hitting Billy Dean high in the shoulder, twice, hitting Billy Dean square in the chest, Billy Dean's momentum carrying him forward to crash into D'Agosta and send him sprawling back on the cold, hard ground.

~*~

Rudely shoving a civilian out of the way - female, mid-50s, wearing a jogging suit, blocking the entrance to the park as if frozen to the spot - Pendergast burst through the gate, taking everything in as though in a series of snapshots: signs of a violent struggle, smears of blood, the bodies crumpled on the ground…

“Vincent…?” He knelt, fingers clumsy as they slid through blood, feeling along Vincent's neck for a pulse, feeling as if all the air was knocked out of him when he couldn't find one, couldn't find one--

 _“Son of a bitch.”_

Pendergast blinked, drew a breath, scrambling to pull himself together.

“Vincent…” He found a pulse now, erratic but real. Even better, Vincent was looking at him, chest heaving as he squirmed and shoved his way out from under Billy Dean's inert body, Pendergast hastily giving him a hand. “You're all right.” _But there was so much blood…_

“Yeah,” Vincent wheezed, trying to get to his feet, accepting Pendergast's steadying arm around him, “I'm good, I'm good.” He let Pendergast help him over to the bench, sinking down gratefully, still breathing hard. Raising his head, D'Agosta looked at Billy Dean, at Pendergast. “Did I get him?”

Regarding the killer, on his back now, eyes staring sightlessly at the leafy tangle of branches overhead, Pendergast nodded, patted Vincent's knee. “You got him.”

Vincent nodded back, looking very shaky. “What kept you?”

Keeping his voice calm, soothing, Pendergast said, “Forgive me, there were some delays.” Conducting as thorough an examination as possible under the circumstances, Pendergast felt his initial elation start to dim. “Vincent,” he tried to ease him down on the bench, “you've been hurt. I--“

Vincent protested, tried to get to his feet - “I'm okay.” - a flash of uncertainty crossing his face as he swayed dizzily, choking, coughing up blood as he collapsed back down to the bench.

It was strangely calming, then, to have things to do: calling for an ambulance, for the police, wadding up his handkerchief and pressing it against a gash along Vincent's jaw, turning him on the bench, finding a stain spreading across the back of Vincent's brown suit coat. A punctured lung? Pendergast shook his head, anxiety trying to surge back as he couldn't think of any way to treat that.

The scream of sirens sounded almost immediately, the night filling with noise and the blue and red lights of emergency vehicles and figures milling about. Pendergast registered it all, responding to questions, but almost at a distance. It was only when they tried to take Vincent from him, loading him into the back of an ambulance, the EMTs working with practiced efficiency, that reality snapped back like a rubber band.

An individual was pressing in on him, prattling mindlessly - it took a moment, but then he identified the person as Vincent's superior, Captain Lackey - demanding to know who had authorized this undercover operation, as if having the correct paperwork in order vastly surpassed the importance of the capture of a psychotic killer or the near-fatal heroics of Lackey's best officer.

Composure fully restored, Pendergast said, “Captain Lackey,” - what he wanted to say was was: _Get out of my face or there will be another officer down._ but he bit that back and simply said, “please excuse me,” smoothly pushing the other man aside.

Not waiting for a response, leaving the man blinking in obsequious bewilderment, Pendergast strode swiftly over to the ambulance, climbing inside, making it equally clear to the EMTs that he would not be budged under any circumstances. And all the way to the hospital, he clasped Vincent's hand and watched him breathe, willing him to never stop.

~*~

 _He didn't belong here._

Amid a crush of media clamoring for updates and police gathering to keep vigil, Pendergast felt out of place. That sensation was driven home when three women arrived, the police officers lining the hospital corridor parting in deference as they passed. He knew who they were instantly, though they had never met.

The two older women, each possessing some aspect of Vincent in their features, could only be his mother and grandmother - the nonna he held in such high regard. Dressed in black, they each supported the younger woman, an attractive redhead in her late thirties, eyes red-rimmed, hastily dressed in worn jeans and an oversized man's shirt she must have grabbed without looking. Pendergast had seen her photograph often enough on Vincent's desk - his wife, Lydia.

As they walked past him, taking no notice, he heard the two older women whispering to each other in an unfamiliar language. Shouldn't they be speaking Italian? he wondered, puzzling over the unusual dialect, glad of the distraction. It kept him from seeing Vincent on a stretcher, deathly pale, gasping for air…

“Mr. Pendergast?”

He looked up, not immediately certain how much time had passed. One of the black-clad women, the eldest, was there, looking at him with Vincent's warm, intelligent brown eyes. “Yes?” Remembering his manners, he stood up, suddenly aware of how disheveled he must appear.

Voice heavily accented, Mrs. D'Agosta said, “You are Vincenzo's friend?”

“Yes, yes, I am. Is he awake?”

She nodded, fingers gripping a rosary. “He is. Very weak, but he will live,” she said, an unshakeable certainty in her voice. “He asks to see you.”

Pendergast nodded, feeling absurdly overwhelmed by this unexpected benevolence. “Thank you, Mrs. D'Agosta.”

“Lucia,” she said, looking at him thoughtfully, patting his arm. “We are taking Lydia to the chapel to pray,” she gestured to Vincent's mother, a pensive expression on her face as she tried to comfort a fragile-looking Lydia. “You will join us?”

“Perhaps.” He bowed over her wrinkled hand, thanking her again, and slipping into Vincent's room as the two black-clad women carefully led Lydia away.

Pendergast stood quietly for a few moments, eyes adjusting to the dimmed lighting, simply absorbing the knowledge of Vincent - alive. There were too many tubes and wires and machines, and he looked terrible, but there was color back in his face, and as Pendergast moved around to take a seat by his beside, Vincent's eyes flickered open, their expression growing sharper as a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Voice hoarse, a little weak, Vincent said, “Nobody can say you don't know how to show a guy a good time.”

Torn between wanting to laugh or weep, or both, Pendergast compromised by clasping Vincent's hand between both of his. “Your grandmother says you're going to be all right.”

“Yeah, she's good about stuff like that.” Vincent cleared his throat, asking, “Could I have some water?”

“Of course.” Pouring out a glass, Pendergast propped Vincent's head with one hand, holding the glass to his lips as he took a couple of sips. When Vincent nodded enough, Pendergast carefully lowered his head back to the pillow, fingers smoothing along his forehead for a moment. “Better?”

Watching him thoughtfully, Vincent nodded. “Yeah. Pen--Aloysius, I… we…”

Was it strange or wonderful that he could divine what Vincent was trying to say? “We… we submersed ourselves into the roles we were playing and became somewhat excessively caught up in the inherent drama of our circumstances.” He had run through that statement over and over, preparing for this moment, and it didn't sound anymore convincing now that he had actually spoken the words out loud.

Expression somewhat veiled now, Vincent said, “Is that what happened?”

“What other,” odd, he had to pause to clear his throat, it had suddenly grown so tight, “what other choice do we have?” he managed at last.

“None,” Vincent said, hoarse again, the veil lifting from his eyes a moment as he met Pendergast's. “None at all,” he whispered, and at least Pendergast knew this deep, aching pain was shared.

Looking away for a moment, Vincent breathed out a ragged sigh, nodding his head against the pillow again. “What happens now?”

“I shall pay a visit to Sister Rachel--“

“Get a search warrant.”

“--with a search warrant,” he smiled slightly, “and take very great pleasure in arresting her. And then…”

Vincent was looking at him, searching. “What?”

“I believe some time in New Orleans would be prudent.”

“Yeah.” Vincent swallowed, blinking. “Think you'll get up this way again?”

“One never knows.”

“Maybe something interesting will come up.”

He managed to whisper a husky, “Maybe.” He grasped Vincent's hand, squeezing. “It has been my very great pleasure to work with you, Vincent.”

Squeezing back, eyes too bright, Vincent whispered, “Same here.”

Pendergast looked at him, suddenly convinced they would never meet again and needing to store up every possible image. Nodding, he went to the door, not daring to look back.

~*~

 _Stromboli, six years later_

Not sure what had awakened him, Vincent lay still, listening, running a hand over the cool sheets beside him.

There it was again, a faint creak, and he slipped out of bed, following the sound out to the terrace facing the sea. By day, that water was a rich, cobalt blue; after midnight and under an overcast sky, it was a deep black that reflected the fire of the volcano.

After over a week Vincent was almost used to that. His Neapolitan ancestors had spent generations in the shadow of Mt. Vesuvius, after all. He could handle this for a little while.

Pendergast was out there, wrapped in a robe and seated at the small dining table. “Did I wake you?”

Taking a seat beside him, shivering a bit although it wasn't really cold, Vincent said, “Like you say, sleeping is overrated.”

“I believe my words were more that it wastes time that might be better spent, but I suppose that's quibbling.”

Vincent turned to study him in the faint light. For almost the first time since he'd gotten here and found Pendergast up on the volcano - hell, for the first time since everything had blown up on them in Florence - the other man truly appeared at ease. Vincent hoped it wasn't for show, to put _him_ at ease; he didn't think it was.

“You gonna be okay?”

Smiling, Pendergast covered Vincent's hand where it rested on the table. “I do believe I am, Vincent - and I thank you for that.”

Feeling a bit awkward, Vincent said, “I didn't do that much.”

“You were there, and,” Pendergast squeezed his hand, “that was more than I deserved.”

“Are you going to start beating up on yourself again?”

“I would prefer not to.”

Vincent nodded, glad to hear it.

It was good to sit out here, just being quiet and enjoying the night with Pendergast, the volcano rumbling in the background.

After a long stretch of that, Pendergast broke the silence, saying, “I believe you said something about activities on the island?”

He blinked, thinking about that, remembering trying to get Pendergast interested in something besides sitting here and brooding. “Yeah, yeah, there's some trattorias and pizzerias in the village. A nice beach, some scuba diving--“

“Did you ever learn to swim?”

A bit embarrassed, he shrugged, manner offhand as he said, “I keep meaning to get around to it.” Even in the dark he could feel Pendergast's silvery eyes boring into him.

“Vincent--“

“Hey, what are the odds I'm ever getting trapped underground again with no way out except by swimming?”

“Given our track record to date, I'm not sure I would care to calculate those odds.”

Vincent shrugged again, conceding Pendergast might have a point. “If you're any good at giving lessons, I'd say we have enough time on our hands.”

“That, my dear Vincent, has the sound a plan about it.”

He smiled. “I'm game if you are.”

“Oh,” Pendergast squeezed his hand again, “I'm game - I'm very game indeed.”

Concluded in Part 6


End file.
